


Just A Dream

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit of fightlock, Aggressive foreplay, Dream Sex, Fantasizing, Fantasy Fulfillment, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Inappropriate Behavior, John's not gay, Love as war, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, NSFW, Not What It Looks Like, Or Is he?, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Brat, Sleep Deprivation, Smut, Smut Sunday, Snarky Sherlock, Temper Tantrums, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unrequited Love, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8496079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: Nothing is quite what it seems and things escalate quickly after John believes he's had a hot and confusingly detailed dream.

  “I need…” John huffed, lost in sensation, the dulled cotton-sheathed touch no longer enough. His fingers dug into pale flesh, pulling. “Mmmm… please, Sherlock,” he begged of the dark specter pressed against him; the want and need overwhelming his sleep leaden brain beyond the means of making a coherent demand.





	1. The Dream

_It was a dream._

Probably. 

Most definitely. 

Just a very hot and confusingly detailed dream.

John looks up from his paper for the hundredth time and his eyes narrow as he studies Sherlock a moment. The detective is perched on the chair at the sitting room desk looking at John's laptop _(of course the berk can't be bothered to fetch his own)_ ; fingers moving rapidly over the keyboard, posture public school straight even in his old t-shirt, pajamas bottoms and blue robe. John's blood begins to heat, rushing into his cheeks. He tears his gaze away to fix his eyes on the fireplace as his mind casts back to last night.

He had been dreaming about measuring the distance between two objects. In that slippery, vague, omniscient way of understanding things when the mind is submerged in the subconscious, it felt vitally important. _Crucial._ As if diagnosing a patient or solving a case depended upon his ability to wrangle the imperfect and inexact world into hard and precise numbers. 

Then slowly it transformed. The thing he was measuring became hot flesh and smooth skin. He realized it was Sherlock and his mind struggled to graft his previous endeavor onto this new canvas. 

He found himself calculating and calibrating the different elements of Sherlock’s unique body, as if the secrets of the universe lie in that place where the immutable laws of mathematics met the ethereal, most intimate parts of Sherlock’s form. Sacred mysteries were revealing themselves in the level of dip between ribs and the subtle grading between the sternum to the concaved valley of his navel. He could feel the smooth glide of skin beneath his palms, the heat and flex. His hands were straying lower, his body becoming flushed with heat as he struggled to breathe. 

He started to surface; moving from dream to a fuzzy state of dulled consciousness. In the all encompassing darkness of his room, the dream blurred with reality so there seemed no difference between his eyes being opened or closed. 

He became aware of a body curled against his own. Hair was dancing across his cheek. There was hot, wet breath against his shoulder. 

His senses were well acquainted with the different elements of the figure curled against him. The sometimes intimate nature of being flatmate, sidekick and doctor to Sherlock meant he knew his scent, the feeling of his skin, the sound of his breathing, but his mind reeled, trying to comprehend how these familiar things had taken a new peculiar form. The scent that was so familiar was now heady and intoxicating. The rumbling voice, now deeper and breathier, was caught in something between a moan and a growl. 

Hands moved across the flesh of John's hip and stomach as skillful fingers caressed his throbbingly hard erection through his pants, dancing over the tip with skilled precision. Delicate touches traced the head, then firmed as they stroked down and back up its thick shaft. The touch was curious and teasing in an oddly demanding way.

John's body hummed at the touch, fire vibrating along his nerves and building into an unbearably sweet symphony of lust and aching hunger. 

“Sherlock?” John sighed, confusion and desire mingling in his voice even as he thrust up into that arousing touch.

“Mmmm… John.” That deep voice rumbled by his ear like thunder rolling in the heavy blackness swathing them, shaking the world down to its foundation. Those violinist’s fingers, strong and nimble, kept dancing up and down his shaft and squeezing through the fabric barrier. The hot puffs of air against his shoulder came quicker and more forcefully. The long, lean body rocked in time with the maddening caresses. 

“I need…” John huffed, lost in sensation, the dulled cotton-sheathed touch no longer enough. His fingers dug into pale flesh, pulling. “Mmmm… _please,_ Sherlock,” he begged of the dark specter pressed against him; the want and need overwhelming his sleep leaden brain beyond the means of making a coherent demand.

“Yes, John,” that silky baritone breathed into his ear. Then his clothes were being briskly peeled away and the dark figure turned. 

It was too easy. Too good. That’s why it _had to be_ a dream. 

Suddenly, long fingers wrapped around the base of his cock and he was being guided between plush globes into tight, slick heat. 

It was a slow immersion, the sounds from Sherlock gloriously erotic and animalistic. But his body was so ready, so accepting, pulling John’s considerable length and girth in like it was meant to be there, and it was never that easy for John. Not in his rare experiences doing it this way. 

_It had to be a dream._

It only took a moment before that deliciously limber, ivory body was thrusting back against him; hips snapping and muscles clutching around him. Fingers against John's hip encouraged him to thrust faster, harder into the body he was spooning.

“Oh, god,” John cried, letting the ecstasy crash through him. He sunk his fingers into Sherlock's hips and snapped in hard and fast like he always longed to do. The noises of pleasure and the vigorous bounce of that arse as it met his thrusts with wanton eagerness, begging for more, both in gasped words and in every physical response, sent John quickly to the edge.

“Please. Please. Please..” Sherlock’s voice dragging from whimpered plea to demanding growl at last sent John over, roaring and arching, emptying himself so deep inside that deliciously warm and tightly clenched body. The orgasm rolled through him in wave after wave of intoxicating pleasure. As his body crashed back to the earth, he collapsed around the thinner body, slick and sticky with sweat. He sleepily moaned his disapproval as that warm body moved away and he drifted back towards sleep, a blissful lethargy pulling him in. He vaguely felt cotton and elastic settle back over his groin.

John clears his throat and presses his fingers to his temple as his eyes cut to Sherlock again. It definitely _didn’t happen._ He looks so… _typical Sherlock_. Surely if they'd done the deed last night he would look or act _different._

John just can’t imagine a scenario where Sherlock would come up to his room, crawl into his bed and, with as easily as it all had gone, been fully prepared and intent on having the hottest sleepy sex he’d ever experienced. 

He readjusts in his seat, the swelling flesh in his jeans over the memory becoming too uncomfortable. His cheeks are blazing hot. He scrubs his hand down his face trying to wipe away the imaginings and bring his brain back to decent, respectable thoughts. 

He glances at his watch: 9:27pm. The later it gets the more his mind strays to those exquisite memories. The little sensations replay randomly across his body; the brush of fingers over smooth hip. The familiar scent of curls tickling his nose. The heat and weight against his thighs. Fngers digging into muscle. The rhythmically clenching heat and pressure around him; yielding and resisting in turn as he took and took and -

A little noise escapes John’s chest and he turns it into a clearing of his throat. He heaves himself out of his chair, moving quickly towards the stairs to his room. 

“Bed, John?” Sherlock turns, pinning John with his piercing cool, blue eyes. John freezes halfway across the room and turns his head to regard him, trying to keep his body discreetly angled away.

“Right. Just a bit… knackered.” John shifts uncomfortably, uncertain if his erection is apparent - concerned what Sherlock will think, and do or say if he does notice it. Sherlock’s eyes flick downward, and slowly trail back up John’s body with a sharp intensity. Warm chills shiver up John’s spine because _that look_ … well, that _is new._

“Good.” Sherlock slams the laptop shut with a sharp click and rises elegantly to his feet. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes. I trust you can wait that long.” His eyes drop pointedly to John’s crotch and a smile pulls up the corner of his lips into a smirk. As his eyes slide back to John's, the pupils are swelling and there is dark, carnal desire burning brightly in them.

John staggers back a few steps, feeling like he has just been run over by a lorry. As Sherlock moves past him towards his own bedroom, John can now see that he is moving just the slightest bit gingerly and... Oh, god... _John did that?_

For long minutes after Sherlock leaves the room, he leans against the wall with his body frozen and his mind racing; trying to rearrange everything he thought he knew about Sherlock, about himself, about what they are to each other. Overwhelmed, his mind goes black and only one thought rises to the surface:

It wasn’t a dream… 

And it’s about to happen again.

A grin breaks across John’s face. He turns and dashes up the stairs to his room, taking them two at a time, shucking off his clothes as he goes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a smutty one-shot that the reader prompting keeps driving forward.   
> I can’t be blamed really.  
> It just sort of… _happened_ …   
> And keeps happening as long as they keep commenting.


	2. Just a Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's desperation leads to an intimate encounter in the dark of night. But the pinning and fantasizing detective can't believe the long awaited act is real.

**THE PREVIOUS EVENING**

Sherlock flops face down on his bed and immediately winces at the sharp objection of pain from a part of his anatomy he has done well to successfully ignore for years prior to a certain jumper-wearing, cabbie-shooting, ex-army Captain hobbling into his life. Now his insistent cock, pinned beneath himself and the bed, reminds him of just how dangerously desperate and desirous he has become. He grips the sheets in both hands and growls in frustration into the mattress, clenching all his muscles tight and breathing harshly, _in, out, in out;_ trying to will the desire away; trying to breathe around the swell of it. 

The mutinous bastard only gives a defiant throb; sending an excruciating pulse of need coursing through Sherlock’s body. He whimpers; collapsing and nearly sobbing into his mattress in defeat. 

_He has lost this battle and he is quickly losing the war._

Anger sweeps through him in a wave. He wants to cry, or scream, or shove John Watson against a wall and punch him… _with his lips._ Choke the idiot _with a clever tongue shoved down his throat._ He wants to bite and scratch and fight because Sherlock _Bloody_ Holmes does _**not**_ fall in love. Especially not with his ordinary, tea-making, jumper-wearing flatmate. He fecking hates John for this. 

But he is not ordinary, is he? No, he is _Captain John Watson_ ; punching and shooting bad guys with that hatefully adorable sparkle in his eyes and that arousingly reckless half smile on his face. 

Sherlock's body is rocking now; the _not-quite-right_ friction against the bed more frustrating than satisfying, yet he can't bring himself to stop. He bites down on the pillow to choke back moaning John's name.

Why does his body have to be so damn _stupid_? This is why he is always ignoring it. It _craves things._ It _insists_ until his brain can no longer shut it out. Food and sleep and sex; all things that at best are a waste of time and at worst are a slippery slope to overindulgence; obsession in the making. Yet his body consistently hijacks his mind in service of these base needs.

Falling for John _‘not-gay,’ ‘not-his-date,’ ‘not-actually-together’_ Watson is masochism at its finest. Yet, in the end the fact remains that the body wants what it wants. 

_He wants John Watson._

God, he wants him like cigarettes and cocaine and morphine all rolled into one. It is enough to drive him mad. _How do normal people cope?_

It's all so awfully unfair - the way John looks at him; the intensity, the attentiveness, the way those dark blue eyes always follow with an air of protectiveness and slight possessiveness. It's so easy to imagine _more_. He whines; twisting his hips a bit and trying to imagine John hard and needy beneath him. 

No, tonight his body will _not_ be ignored. There is no distraction, no problem, no case and no scientific experiment that will sufficiently deter him from that unquenchable need. Not cigarettes nor cocaine, nor morphine will do; as if John would tolerate him having _any of those._ No, he must indulge in something _far more dangerous_ to quiet the raging need tonight.

He flips over onto his back and closes his eyes as he surrenders to it. His mind drifts up through the cracked, plaster ceiling, through the wooden floor and through the bed to the sleeping ex-soldier above. He calls him down until he can feel the man's weight settle on top of him. 

John is smiling at him. It's that dark, thrilled expression of facing impossible odds together. He licks his lips and his breathing is excited and eager. A bone-deep groan escapes Sherlock's chest as he squirms on the sheets. What he wouldn't let the soldier do to him if he just looked at him like that; with the intent and desire to conquer him.

Sherlock lightly runs his fingers down his chest and over the length of his painfully engorged flesh trapped beneath the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms. He is not a patient man, but he knows John is. He knows the ex-soldier would be tortuously slow in winding Sherlock up until the need for release would be maddening; unbearable. 

He sinks down into the imagining; his mind weaving together bits and pieces of data and observations to fabricate a fantasy. 

John is there. He is wearing his soft, gray, cabled jumper. It is one of his _least offensive_ , it brings out the lighter blue colour of his eyes. He is also wearing jeans; the ones that fit him best on the arse. He doesn’t wear those often enough in Sherlock’s opinion, but he has them committed to memory. His feet are bare.

 _‘That's brilliant, Sherlock.’_ John's voice is low and soft; heavy with honest affection as he murmurs those familar words of praise. Then he touches Sherlock's upper arm gently. His palm is warm and comforting as it wraps around the muscle and just stays there, squeezing lightly. He moves so careful, but with quiet confidence to face Sherlock. There is no tension nor apprehension between them. The balance has not yet shifted to something _more._ There is nothing unfamiliar here. His eyes are warm and intense as he looks Sherlock over. 

John leans in and Sherlock can feel John's arousal brush against his own; hard and surprisingly broad and long. 

There are parts of John that Sherlock can't quite imagine because he has no data. They are sometimes blurry or shifting into various forms throughout Sherlock's fantasies. But he had felt that part of John _once_.

They'd been knocked out and awoke while being buried in a coffin-like wooden box. They came back to consciousness almost at the same time, pressed tightly together in the dark with no real room to move; Sherlock lying facing down on his stomach, arms pinned at his sides, and John on top of him with his groin pressed to Sherlock's arse, unable to move away. It took everything in Sherlock not to push back against John who never stopped struggling; growing more aroused and desperate by the moment. 

The memory sends a sharp throb of need through Sherlock’s body and he whines.

 _‘You’re in pain. Let me take care of that.’_ John looks down between them at Sherlock's tented pajama bottoms. 

Sherlock swallows. His heart is fluttering in his chest now. Usually his mind plays these fantasies out as something fast; urgent, desperate, and rough, as if John reaches his breaking point and simply can’t restrain himself in the heat of a moment. That always seemed the most plausible scenario, _if there ever was a plausible one_. However, sometimes, when his mind is feeling particularly masochistic, the fantasy that unfolds is slow, deliberate and tender. This seems one of those rare times when his mind decides to torture him with the version of John that seduces him with a slow determination while exuding love and protectiveness. Sherlock begins to tremble. This type of night never fails to strip him bare and leave him emotionally shattered. 

_‘What do you need, Sherlock?’_ John is leaning into him. Lying on the bed, Sherlock strips himself of clothes as, in his mind, John runs his hands slowly and smoothly over his chest, down his flanks and to his hips. His eyes are thoughtful and reverent as he looks up at Sherlock. Sherlock rubs his own hands down his chest and sides as John had. It sets off a rolling wave of heat and throbbing inside him. 

_‘You.’_ Sherlock opens his eyes. He hadn't meant to say _that_. This way is too real; too exposing and too painful. He looks down at his trembling body; his leaking cock. His eyes burn. 

_Should stop. This is dangerous._

He takes a deep breath and the scent of John is unhelpfully supplied by his manipulative mind; calling him back to the fantasy. He growls in frustration. 

_I need this._

He closes his eyes.

 _‘You can trust me. I take care of you.’_ John smiles as his head tips to the side. His expression says Sherlock is being silly to resist. _‘It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine.’_ His eyes are warm and reassuring. Sherlock feels his resolve crumble. He leans in and rests his head on John’s shoulder; feeling the strength in the ex-soldier's firm body. Those powerful arms wrap around him. 

_‘John... make love to me.'_ Only a whisper. He dare not speak this most secret desire louder; this ultimate fallacy of both _physicality_ and _emotionality._

 _‘Oh, god, yes.’_ He feels John smile eagerly against his neck. Then they are naked on the bed. John is warm and hard pressing down on him. Sherlock rubs his hand gently over himself to simulate the maddening friction and he squirms. In his mind he is trying desperately to pull John closer; to feel flesh to flesh, the heat and muscles, but John is always just hovering over him. Sherlock doesn’t know the sensation of his flesh against his own to fill that gap.

John’s hot breath is against Sherlock's shoulder. He moves slowly; his mouth hovers over Sherlock's lips, his cheek, his neck then his shoulder. The lips brush lightly, like fingertips but are unable to do anything more. He wants John to kiss him but he can't conjure an appropriate approximation. He has seen John kiss women and what it looks like is not difficult to recreate. However, having very little experience with being kissed himself he can't evoke the sensation of lips pressed to his flesh. 

Sherlock presses two parallel fingers into his own skin in the hopes of supplying a sensation that will give _his John_ the ability to press lips to him, but his brain is not fooled. His fingers don’t feel like John’s lips would, they can’t; they aren’t moist and they don’t yield. They can’t smile or whisper or pucker. That familiar agony swells in Sherlock's chest. 

_Why do I do this to myself?_

He growls, lets the image go and grabs for the lube in his bedside drawer. When he closes his eyes again John's hands are running down his body. _Yes, he knows John’s hands_. Every callus and imperfection and the variations in texture of those hands are burned into his mind with perfect accuracy. He knows the soft parts and the hard parts and how gentle yet firm they can be. 

The hands run over his cheek tenderly and thread through his hair for a moment. Sherlock purrs as the chills shoot down his spine. A light caress traces down his neck, along his collarbone and onto his chest. The palms push down firmly on his pectoral muscles, fingers splayed, feeling his chest rise and fall as he breathes harshly now. With gentle sweeps, they trace a soft pattern, flirting with his already taut nipples, and then they suddenly flatten over his heart.

Sherlock looks up at John. He is smiling with that _knowing smile_ and it hurts. 

_‘Please, John.’_

John nods; his smile growing. He lifts his hands and the bottle of lube appears in the right one. _‘Yes, love.’_

Sherlock blinks his eyes open and expels a harsh breath. John manages to surprise him even in his own head; ripping him wide open with that term of endearment that he uses so liberally with women but _not_ with Sherlock.

 _Never with Sherlock._

Shivers are racking Sherlock's body. He is throbbing painfully. He is afraid to close his eyes and endure further emotional injury in service of this unobtainable fantasy but he can't do this without John. He has tried; it never works. 

_Can't turn back now._

He takes three deep breaths to calm himself and then he slicks the fingers of his left hand. _John is left handed, has to be the left hand._

He closes his eyes.

 _‘You're so lovely.’_ John grins. His eyes are soft, a little dull, like when he has had too much alcohol. He looks like he has been snogged thoroughly; hair beautifully mussed, lips red and cheeks flushed. His eyes sparkle as he moves down, spreading Sherlock’s legs and kneeling between his thighs. Sherlock tries to close his legs tightly around John to feel his body pressed against the inside of his thighs, but he doesn’t know that sensation either. 

The image flickers; John's expression jumps between distaste and disappointment for a second as he takes in Sherlock's _very male_ genitalia. Sherlock panics; his mind scrambling to salvage the fantasy. Then John is blindfolded. He'd seen _that_ plenty of times when John was abducted or they’d been captured. 

_‘You OK, Sherlock?'_ He is whispering. The concern in his voice is clear. John has never liked being deprived of his sight. Still, his hands move deftly over Sherlock's body. Sherlock directs one of John's hands down the inside of his thigh. He moves the other, now slick with lube to circle his entrance. _‘Sherlock?’_ John hesitates, drawing his hand back. 

_Maybe_... If John just didn't have to think about the fact that Sherlock is a _man_... 

Sherlock flips over onto his stomach. John had done it _this way_ with the occasional woman before; of this Sherlock is certain. John also enjoyed it, if his porn viewing habits are any indication. Additionally, John had found being pressed against Sherlock, like this, sufficiently arousing.

He feels the panting of hot breath against his neck, as it had been in the coffin. The breathing is uncertain, but clearly desirous. Sherlock can't go as deeply with his fingers in this position, but he can still make himself believe that those fingers are John’s. John's fingers wouldn’t be as long his own anyways.

 _‘Yes, John.’_ Sherlock has two inside now, moving quickly and roughly. His voice is desperate, broken. His eyes are squeezed tightly closed and the tears are starting to prick at his eyes and flow down his cheeks. He needs to finish _soon_ or the emotion will win out. 

_‘Good. See, I'll be good for you. Please, John.'_

He is sweating and shuffling against the bed. Three fingers. Hard and fast as he can.

_Too shallow. Need more. Need John._

He is never going to be able to come _like this._

 _'Please. Please. Please. Please.'_ He chants desperately, willing his mind to allow those fingers to become John, overwhelmed with desire and pushing himself into his eager body... but it is no use. He collapses onto the bed. He hurts all over; inside and out.

 _Can't pretend._

_‘I’m not…'_ John sighs into his ear.

“I know, John.” Sherlock curls into a ball, shaking, as hot tears flow down his cheeks and the cold air of the room prickles at his naked skin. 

He loses track of time, but when he comes back to himself he is standing in John’s doorway watching him sleep. He looks down at his own naked body; still painfully hard and shaking like an addict in withdrawal.

“I can’t, John,” he says into the darkness. John does not stir, but his eyebrows lift slightly. 

He runs his eyes over John slowly. He isn’t wearing a shirt and Sherlock can finally see his wounded shoulder. He steps closer to examine it; memorizing the look of it. Then he closes his eyes, slotting the information into place to correct the John in his mind. He sighs in relief at having one more piece of John that is _not_ always distractedly flickering or blurred. He takes in all the other blurred and flickering parts of his Mind Palace John. If Sherlock just had _all the data_ to fill in the blanks, he could satiate his need back in his own bed with a complete John in his mind. 

_John wouldn’t have to _know._ He wouldn't have to _do_ anything._

John is sleeping so soundly. If he is _really careful_ , John won't even wake. Sherlock will just observe, collect data, then leave. John can hardly object to _that._

Sherlock moves so very slowly and cautiously. He is not a patient man, but for John he _can be._ He carefully slips under the covers and lays on the edge of John’s bed, facing him. He takes a moment to just breathe the scent of him in, to feel the weight and heat of him so close within the intimate darkness. 

He keeps an arm's length of distance between them. He cautiously lowers his hand onto John’s chest, beside the scar that sent the ex-soldier home from the war. The thrill that shoots through him is instant. It is more than he imagined. He can feel the gnarled edges of the scar under some of his fingertips and the smooth skin of his shoulder under the others. His flesh is so hot; like a furnace. _Much warmer_ than it has ever been in those casual or doctorly touches. Sherlock chokes on a sound that tries to escape his throat. 

He waits a moment, taking in all the sensation, then he slowly sweeps his hand up to John’s neck. He feels John swallow and hum as Sherlock moves his fingers around to feel the bristly hair at the base of his skull. 

_John thinks he is with someone else. A lover? Of course. John is used to sharing a bed with lovers._

Sherlock grows braver; shuffling his body a little closer so he can feel the heat radiating from John along the length of his own body. It is different without the barrier of clothing; more intense, but he does not dare to press flesh to flesh. _Surely John would notice a lack of breasts._

Sherlock carefully runs his fingertips over the shell of John’s ear. He has always wanted to run his tongue over that. He never could figure out what the texture might be like, how fragile the lobe might be if he sucked on it. He pinches that soft mound of flesh between finger and thumb now and John smiles, making a quiet, rumbling sound and shifting forward a bit. Sherlock’s groin throbs in response. 

_Yes, John would like if I did that. And I would definitely like when he growls._

Sherlock moves his hand to John’s chin. He has some stubble and the texture of it is interesting, more dense and coarser than his own; slightly more abrasive. He stares for a long time before he works up the courage to brush his fingers gently over John’s lips. He quickly withdraws, startled, when they part slightly. A tongue swipes out over the surface and John’s brow furrows. 

“Mmm. Don’t know,” John mumbles. Then his hands come up and land on Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock freezes. He can still leave. He _should_ leave before John wakes. 

John doesn’t move. His hands just rest there. Sherlock closes his eyes. He thought he knew John’s hands, but _this_ \- this is _different._ These hands are hot, like the rest of John is. They aren’t cautious or doctorly assessing, they are gripping firmly, with comfortable intimacy. Sherlock shivers. 

_So intense. So much better than imagined._

Sherlock opens his eyes and studies John’s sleeping face. He looks like his is concentrating intensely. _Angry?_ “John?” Sherlock’s whisper sounds loud in the silent room. 

“Sh’lok, I’m _tryin’_ ” John grumbles and his grip tightens as he drags Sherlock closer. “Just let me-” John’s hands begin to slowly move; roaming up over Sherlock’s ribs to his chest and Sherlock’s whole body is on fire. 

The lines between the fantasy and reality are blurring. He can’t tell if he has somehow slipped into the most detailed and erotic fantasy of his life. John is touching him, pulling him close and caressing him and it is all so _surreal._ Sherlock's hand shoots out and his palm flattens against John’s groin, the distinct shape of his almost fully erect cock burns into Sherlock’s hand through the thin cotton pants John is wearing.

_Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god._

Sherlock’s mind is spinning as his fingers instinctively tighten around that length and begin tracing it. _Oh, it’s beautiful._ He can feel the muscles and the veins and the thick head. He never imagined it quite like _this._ It is so different than his own; stronger and sturdier. _Perfect._ And it is growing as he touches it.

He caresses the tip gently and firmly strokes down the length, attempting to fill it out to its maximum girth and length. He shudders; momentarily distracted from his pursuit of data by John’s hand sweeping over his nipple then down over his bare hip and thigh. It’s too much. He wasn’t prepared for this. _Not really._ He thought he was, but John is so much _more_ than he ever anticipated.

_Is this real? Is John really letting me touch him like this?_

His whole body is vibrating. He bends forward and pants into John’s neck, overwhelmed. 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is thick, but clearly a little closer to fully conscious. For a moment Sherlock is afraid to speak. He can’t find his voice. He flattens his lower hand against John’s abdomen and the other continues to stroke along his length. He closes his eyes; willing the fantasy not to shatter when he speaks.

“Mmmm… John.” His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, so raw and deep with desire that it rumbles in his chest. John's breath is coming faster. 

_John isn’t pulling away yet. This can't be real._

The smell of him is filling Sherlock's nose; the familiar now made sharp with the scent of sex. He has never smelled _that_ without it being overlain with the thick, nauseating scent of some woman. He is dizzy with the rush of it; the heady intoxication.

He can feel a wet patch forming near John’s tip. He whimpers in spite of his efforts to stay silent. He runs his fingers through the dampness and quickly touches it to his lips; tasting cotton and John’s essence. The flesh of John’s neck is growing tacky with sweat beneath Sherlock’s cheek. He barely restrains the urge to lick that too; taste him with sex and adrenaline in his pores.

_Yes. Please. Taste everything. Want that so badly._

He quickly returns to stroking John. He isn’t brave enough to reach into John’s pants; though he desperately wants to, he is afraid that may be one step too far. Surely John can’t pretend Sherlock is someone else when his _very male_ hands are wrapped around his prick. 

Sherlock is moving rapidly now; desperately hoping to feel John come apart in his hands before the doctor comes to his senses and pushes Sherlock away. Knowing that; knowing what John feels like when he empties himself, could do so much to make his fantasies complete. 

John is panting. His body is rocking into the touches and everything is moving with that rhythm. Can almost imagine... _Almost._

John’s hands tighten on Sherlock’s hips and when he speaks it is the voice Sherlock always fantasized about; deep and gravelly with desperate want. 

“I _need_ …” His fingertips bite into Sherlock’s flesh as he pulls Sherlock closer. “Mmmm… please, Sherlock.” He voice is fervent lust and his breath is so wet and hot curling into Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock shudders. How could he ever deny that voice _anything?_

_My name on his lips. Wanting me. Just as imagined... This **can’t** be real._

In Sherlock's fantasies he _always knows_ what John wants because it is always _exactly what Sherlock needs_. If this is _his fantasy,_ then he knows exactly what John wants now because he needs it too; _so very badly._ Sherlock surrenders to all the need and desire that has plagued him since first laying eyes on John Watson. 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes into John’s ear. His whole body is shaking with a fluctuating combination of fear, desire and anticipation. His fingers shake and slip as he briskly peels away John’s pants. He glances down and swallows another moan. _Extraordinary._ He turns around quickly before John can change his mind.

He wraps his fingers around that silky, hard length and thinks he might explode right then. His hands clamp around the base of both their cocks because he _needs this to last_. 

Either he has gone mad and this is the _best bloody fantasy_ he has ever had or John has gone mad and he has to act fast _before his sanity returns._

He is open and slick from his own attempts at release but he still has a second of panic when that thick tip pushes into him and his body squeezes tight against that unprecedented intrusion. It burns, but Sherlock wouldn’t stop if it meant tearing himself in two to have John all the way inside him. His whole body shivers and pulses as John seems to slowly impale him. He can’t help the noises that tear free from his chest now. It feels like being born again; the fusing of two into one, creating a completely new being. 

Finally he feels his own fingers, wrapped around the base of John, come flush against his cheeks and he nearly cries for joy. He can feel all of John. Every centimeter of him is throbbing inside him and even as he teeters there on the edge of overwhelming pleasure and pain; he wants more. 

_So much. So good. Can't be real. It has to be a fantasy._

Sherlock begins pushing back against John’s firm, solid body. The feeling of his muscular thighs flexing against the back of his own legs and John's chest against Sherlock’s bare back is so deliciously strong and powerful that Sherlock moans, driving back harder. Just knowing John is inside him makes him so close he is holding onto his base with a fierce, white-knuckled grip. He wants John to come first. He can’t be lost in the post-coital haze when John goes over the edge. He grabs onto John’s strong hip, fingertips lightly pulling to encourage him to move. Sherlock is rewarded with John wrapping his arms tightly around his waist and driving his hips up into him with sharp, precise snapping movements. Sherlock tries to hold onto the edge of the bed and press back as their bodies slap together. John's weight draped over him from behind is his only anchor.

“Oh, god,” John cries and the ecstasy in his voice is so exquisite that Sherlock feels his whole body tighten. John growls low and deep, he pulls back and his fingers nearly meet bone as they sink into Sherlock’s hips. He abandons all restraint; pounding into Sherlock with such relentless power; hard and fast just like Sherlock always fantasized he would. He cannot speak but he doesn't need to because John is giving and giving and giving with such reckless, savage abandon that Sherlock's mind cannot even begin to process the catcaphony of sensations. Instincts have taken over. He is aflame with the blinding pleasure and desire of it. His body, made for John, eagerly accepts and greedily craves still more. Their noises of pleasure are a symphony of music incomparable in beauty to anything Sherlock has ever heard or imagined. 

John is coming to the edge now. His movements are stiff and Sherlock's body aches slightly with a new stretch as John's entire length grows impossible thicker inside him. 

“Please. Please. Please...” Sherlock can barely speak but he forces those words out. He releases his grip on his own cock and that is all it takes to send him tumbling. He feels John tipping over too; roaring and arching, pulsing so deep inside him. He can't focus through the implosion of his own orgasm. His body clenches tightly around John, as the bliss washes over him in fire and light; obliterating everything he ever thought he knew about his physical form's capacity to experience pleasure. 

He blinks himself back into corporeal existence and finds the heavy weight of John collapsed around him. His body is still searingly hot and now he is slick and sticky with sweat. 

It is so tempting to just relax into that embrace, to indulge another quiet fantasy of intimacy, but that is _dangerous_ , inviting the pain. Sherlock's heart throbs painfully in his chest as he shifts and John sleepily moans by his ear, slipping out of him. 

This part is familiar; the devastation as reality crashes back in. 

In the morning John will still be John _‘not-gay,’ ‘not-his-date,’ ‘not-actually-together’_ Watson and Sherlock will still be _alone._

_Some things can only happen in _the dark_ and must _remain_ in the dark._

He carefully cleans himself up and then does the same for John who is blissfully lethargic and drifting on the edge of sleep. 

When he is done and John is all dressed, just as Sherlock found him, he stands in the doorway naked and shivering against the cool night air. 

_Not to keep. Not real. Just a fantasy. Can never be real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again my lovely readers/commentors have convinced me to forge ahead with a story I thought was just a flash-in-the-pan, one-shot. In this one, some readers made it clear that in the first chapter Sherlock could be taken as being a heartless aggressor, taking advantage of a sleepy John. There are always two sides to any story and adoring both characters I felt the need to redeem Sherlock a bit with his perspective. 
> 
> Not sure if I will continue. As usual, you can likely convince me there is more story to tell with your comments.


	3. The Substance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their dream/fantasy night together, Sherlock's thoughts the next day lead to him being bold enough to confront John.
> 
>  
> 
> _As requested by reader, DaisyFairy._

_Fuck you and your sodding guilt trip, John Watson… but **fuck me** first._

This is the only thought in Sherlock's head as he glares at John who is standing stiffly in the center of their sitting room with an expression on his face not unlike a startled animal. _Stiff_ in every sense of the word and trying desperately to hide it.

“Bed, John?” Those words shot from Sherlock’s mouth are the snare that now binds John. 

John takes it as a _question;_ it is, in fact, a _demand._

John's wide eyes blink and then narrow and his tongue swipes nervously over his lips as his strong body makes an awkward shift to angle away. He is muttering something about knickers or jumpers or _whatever the hell_ flimsy evasion he can muster to excuse his fleeing to his bedroom _without Sherlock._

Sherlock can't hear anything over the roar of blood in his ears. Eyes, like daggers, pin John in place as the practised mask of neutrality hides the roiling and seething inferno beneath his surface. He is the whole bloody thesaurus of words related to ire; every shade and variant of frustration and wrath contained within the burning flesh of his hedonistic and craven body. A potent mixture of desire and rage burns through him and it is an even draw on which will prevail.

John has stopped talking and is still staring at him with a face full of confusion, concern and astonishment. The tilt of his head and purse of his lips _(lips, goddamn, still don't know how those lips feel)_ hold an unspoken question. And that it remains _unspoken_ is the unending spring of rancor feeding Sherlock’s swelling river of rage.

> Sherlock has waited.

Sherlock's vast compendium of knowledge and myriad of life experiences have proven useless when it comes to navigating the unfamiliar terrain of having a glorious mid-night shag with your _adamantly heterosexual_ flatmate. His genius level intellect and unique skills provide no resources on an appropriate way to act or to feel when faced with said flatmate. Sherlock doesn't know _this_ and he _HATES_ not knowing anything of such consequence. It is _intolerable._ John is perhaps the only person he will admit his occasional gaps in knowledge to. Sherlock might do so now if the man weren't both the source and the focus of his current emotional apoplexy.

> All day, Sherlock has waited.

Eyes made sharp as knives slip down John's body, clinging contemptuously to every unobtainable contour. John’s arousal is a physical presence in the room making the air thicker and setting all of Sherlock's nerves ablaze with the memory and the need. It is insult to injury for John to taunt him with blatant evidence of arousal while making moves to take himself up to his room. After the day, empty of words and full of heated stares, it is insufferable. 

_Punishment_ is all this can be, really.

The barbaric cruelty of the man would be detestable if it weren't equally appealing. Like an especially clever criminal, Sherlock feels an indecent thrill curl up his spine at the challenge of setting himself against a formidable opponent. 

Sherlock presses his own fingertips into his hip. Beneath the fabric of his pajama bottoms there is a beautiful spread of purple bruises on the white flesh that match John’s hands. The jolt of pain and the steady ache of his well used body tethers him to that glorious reality that existed in the darkness; the desperate tangle of hot, sticky bodies violently chasing pleasure beneath the veil of night. 

_Not a dream._

He lets his eyes linger on that distinct outline straining against the fly of John's jeans. Every fiber within Sherlock's being despises whatever preternatural force there is to blame for those jeans somehow managing to contain the cataclysmic pressure that must be exerted upon them by the swell of John Watson's spitefully exquisite, fully-erect cock. And, oh, how Sherlock's body throbs at the sudden memory of _that_ moving inside him; breaking him and remaking him around the unyielding strength and force. It should be scientifically impossible for the bulge at John’s groin to have its own alarmingly powerful gravitational and magnetic field, yet the pull of it against Sherlock's own body is evidence enough to call the basic laws of physics into question. The whole room seems to bend around it now and while it is highly unlikely one could continue to exist with the foundation of the universe unraveling, somehow Sherlock remains within that vacuum; the dwindling oxygen making it nearly impossible to breathe. 

To hell with breathing. Breathing is _boring._

Sherlock stares, unwavering, into John's mercurial blue eyes. Able to hold the stark fury of the sea during a storm or the warmth of the richest blue summer sky, those eyes have been accosting him with their brooding heat all day. Sherlock thrives within the hurricane fury of John's bellowing rages. The electric thrill of setting himself against _Captain John Watson_ and watching the ex-soldier’s pulse elevate, his face flush and his entire body seized by an overwhelming physiological reaction _to Sherlock_ is second only to serial killers and locked door mysteries. 

As so often the case with John, diametrically opposed is somehow, simultaneously, optimally aligned. The ex-soldier in John knows some battles are necessary and the doctor knows unattended wounds only fester. Both being passionate and high tempered men, an unspoken tenet of being able to co-exist has been to slice open and bleed the infection out of any wounds between them so they can begin to heal properly. They have always been quick to confront anything of significance.

The doctor and detective have never been ones to beg off a little bloodshed.

Sex, relationships, emotions; those are _John's area._ _Not that they've have much cause for discussion of these matters up to this point,_ but John has always been the one leading the charge into this territory.

So, Sherlock has waited. _All day._ 12 hours, 22 minutes and 17 seconds, he has waited. With uncharacteristic patience, he has waited for John to take the lead and set the terms for addressing what occurred last night. Yet, John has narry said a word to Sherlock about it. _All. Bloody. Day._

Silence is damning. Silence is impotence and resignation; a declaration that Sherlock is irreparably flawed beyond hope of salvation. A tortuous condemnation; a quiet scorn pregnant with John's guilt, shame and oppressive defeatism. Humiliation and the fear that he has at last done something that John deems _unforgivable_ has fermented within Sherlock. John's silence and sententious looks have been a burr against sensitive skin; persistently prickling and chaffing Sherlock all day until he is now raw with it. 

Indignation and defensiveness is an autonomic response to this deep stab of rejection. His entire body is an abscess; his skin stretched painfully tight with the swell of trying to contain those toxins building inside him. He is ready to burst and unleash his poison.

> Sherlock is done waiting.

_Fight me. Yell. Stomp. Rage. I won't let you silently slip away and leave me in the cold._  
_I will only accept your surrender or my utter defeat._

“Good.” In that single sharp word and the snap of John's laptop slammed closed, Sherlock has signaled his charge to war. Heedless of the danger and risk to himself, he plans to fling himself into the fray with the relentless determination of chasing down a criminal. 

It just so happens John Watson's only crime is stealing his heart.

He rises to his feet and his body is a weapon of singular destruction aimed at one man, John _'not-gay-but-still-going-to-shag-my-flatmate-boneless’_ Watson.

“I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.” Sherlock’s voice is the precisely measured combination of smooth heat and challenge to rankle the ex-soldier. “I trust you can wait that long.” 

Sherlock's eyes are once more drawn to John’s crotch and he feels everything inside him pulse as he contemplates the dangerous weapon therein. His mouth twitches up in a crooked smile.

 _Shots fired._  
_A challenge issued._  
_The game is on._  


The exhilaration of a well-landed reprisal surges within Sherlock. He has just sliced that wound open and in precisely twenty minutes the maddening agony of waiting is going to be over. As his eyes slide back to John's, recognition dawns on John's face and his pupils swell, consuming the dark blue of his irises. A spark of dark satisfaction zips through Sherlock's body chased by a low burn curling through his abdomen and pulling everything tight. 

_No hiding._  
_No hatefully polite retreat into silence._  
_I am coming for you. Stop me, if you dare._

He prowls towards John (as best he can with his own arousal and the ache that John left in him). John's wide eyes travel over his body as the ex-soldier's mouth falls open and he stumbles back a step. Sherlock marches into his own room and slams the door.

_’Fuck you and your sodding guilt trip, John Watson… but **fuck me** first._


	4. Into Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had said he would be _'ready for John '_ in twenty minutes.  
> Twenty minutes is an eternity for one angry, flustered and hatefully horny detective.

Skin is slithering, pulsating, attempting to detach itself and slip free of Sherlock's body like some creature made separate; rebelling against what it is inextricably bound. Those undulating waves of sensation course through him, ebbing and flowing like the ocean; skating the thin edge between pleasure and pain as he is unmade. 

In the spaces in-between, atoms are splitting. Their essence is spilling into a rising tide of radiant, nuclear energy. It blazes through his body in liquid fire. It's a cascade. He is sliding towards inevitable meltdown as that surge of excess electrical energy sets every part of his body into motion; twitching, trembling, flexing. 

His bedroom is too hot. The air, _atrociously lacking in any scent of John,_ is a wet, woolen blanket wrapping itself around his lungs. But he is oscillating; moving nearly at the speed of a light. Pacing in circles so rapidly that he is outside the flow of time, watching seconds stretch out to _hours, days, years_ before him.

> _20 minutes. 20 minutes is a bloody eternity._

> Think, have to _think._  
> 

Backwards and forwards, round and round, pushing, pulling, tearing. A rumbling forces its way out between gritted teeth as sparks flash against the darkness of his crushed closed eyes.

>   
>  _Impulses._ It's all a matter of impulses. That's what it comes down to; _impulse and control._  
> 

>   
> 
> 
> ...Or is the truth in the atoms, surrendering their innermost power to transform; becoming broken?

>   
> 
> 
> ... Or is it the eternal battle of the flesh; man against himself, _soma_ turned against _sarx_ , mind and body’s war for dominance?

>   
> 
> 
> Too many possibilities. Narrow it down. Narrow it down. _Narrow. It. Down._

>   
> 
> 
> No. Stop. Not _thinking._ Need to _\- Need to-_  
> 

  


Sherlock freezes, every muscle taut, hands cast out, as if the calm this situation demands is something tangible, fluttering at the edges of his grasp; a butterfly he can wait to alight and then pounce upon.

In the sudden quiet of his new stillness, where even his breath is held hostage in his chest, the sound reaches his ears of John’s rapidly retreating footsteps, thumping up the staircase to the ex-soldier’s room. 

_Two at a time. Gaining speed… but off balance. No slam of the door?_

The familiar hum of Baker Street resumes. In one bound, Sherlock is standing on his bed; tiptoed, every muscle at full extension upward, strained muscles quivering and his head tilted to the side.

Precisely 1.25 meters short of optimal listening position. 

_Nothing._

Sherlock slips his hands into his hair. Curling his fingers, he yanks until the violent fission sparking across his scalp, shivers down his spine and pools in a burning, pulse low in his groin.

>   
>  _Nine._ Nine possibilities for John's current emotional state. 

> _Narrow it down. Narrow it down. Narrow it down. Narrow it down._

He flops backwards onto his bed and rebounds with a grunt at the force of the impact. His hands scramble over his body, peeling off his clothing with all the urgency of them being on fire. Lying there, breathless and naked with his body already damp with sweat, he stares up at the ceiling. 

His flesh is afire. He may well be spontaneously combusting.

He runs his hands down his body but everything is twitching and trembling and his hands feel _all wrong._ Somewhere, deep within, there is a lush, dark room replete with every sensation Sherlock has ever been able to steal from John... but he _can’t reach it._ His body has taken control. It won’t calm for even a moment to let him prepare for John, as he said he would. 

Anticipation and anxiety spark and crackle on every nerve. He wants to rip his stupid, self-sabotaging, weak and wanting transport to pieces with his own bare hands. His body, nothing more than an abettor of base deeds, dragged him into this mess. More of John did not quench the need within, it only ignited it further. Sheer sentiment has overthrown logic, unleashing a ravenous craving that will surely consume him. 

_Bloody slippery slope of indulgence._

Sherlock hisses, body tensing and hips twitching and flexing erratically across the sheets. He aches. Trenchant yearning swells at the sense memory of John inside him. It is sharp and potent; a cruelly exquisite mix of pleasure and pain. He fists his hands, crushes his eyes closed and growls through gritted teeth as he slams his heels down and throws his head back repeatedly in fully-body convulsions of frustration. 

His tantrum leaves him panting and his face burns with the humiliation of it, but anger chases, hot on its heels. 

_John has made him this way._ John seduced him with his quiet charm; a slow invasion of his head and heart and now his body. 

John reached out and pulled him close, branded Sherlock with those heated touches on bare skin, marked him with fingertips dug in hips and then emptied his essence deep within Sherlock’s body, leaving Sherlock’s entire chemistry altered, irreparably changed by absorbing that essentia of John. There is no going back... and it’s _all John’s fault._

Sherlock scrambles to his feet. He rips the dark blue dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door and wraps it around himself. The cool, feather-light brush of silk on his hot and sensitive skin makes him shudder. He is trembling and he can’t even begin to stop himself because the soft brush of fabric against his skin is _not_ John but _he wants it to be._

He glares accusingly at his reflection in the mirror on his wardrobe. He looks every bit as wanton and needy as he feared; eyes wild, pink flush crawling from cheekbones all the way down his neck to his chest, hair mussed and curled with the dampness of his heated body. The thin silk of his robe does nothing to hide the obscene shape jutting from his groin. It is ridiculous, absurd, laughable how far he has fallen; _overwhelmed by base desire and primal urges._

The scowl reflecting back at him could sear flesh from bone. 

_It’s all John’s fault._

Even as he brims with anger, something pulls at his gut; an unsettling sense of deception hidden within his own reflection. 

_**No.**_ He can’t think about this too much - can’t let John overthink it either. Just bodies; friction and heat, excretions and chemical reactions. Like the occasional meal or a nap to satisfy the biological imperatives of his flawed transport, he will take the bare minimum of what he needs to maintain function and then disregard it once again. Just _once more._ That will _surely_ be enough. It is entirely possible that this is just a _once-every-thirty-odd-years_ requisite… _**Unless**_ … 

The reflection’s eyes widen in alarm before Sherlock can shove that thought into the mental waste bin. He clenches his jaw tight and fixes that repulsively transparent visage with an icy glare full of scorn. 

**_No_** …This is _**not**_ about surrender to specious sentimentality. This is _**not**_ capitulation to his irrational and emotionally compromised side. This is not _love..._ this is _sex._ Idiots do it all the time. 

A spike of irritation shoots through him as his thoughts circle around again and that bulge in his silk robe gives a distressingly hopeful twitch. He narrows his eyes on it, clenching his fists. 

**No.** He does **not** _do_ sex... and certainly not love…. 

But _battle_ … 

Yes, Sherlock is _very good_ at battle.

Sherlock straightens his spine and hardens his expression.

_Into battle, then._

He is a dark storm of fury as he sweeps through the flat and marches up the stairs to John’s bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks to Sherlockssister for everything she does.  
> She brings her brilliant critical eye to my work.  
> Hopefully you enjoyed horny, drama-queen Sherlock as much as she says she did.  
>  **This has been entirely fed by readers continuing to prompt me - so, if you want more, you know what to do.**


	5. The Restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to terms with what happened the previous evening and reaches dine important conclusion.

John looks down at his own palms and studies them, as if a closer inspection might reveal how the hell they came to have Sherlock’s hot flesh beneath them the previous evening. They tingle with the memory of that firm body yielding to their strength and he clenches and unclenches them. 

_Not a dream?_

He can't quite get it sorted. Spikes of sensation ricochet around his brain, humming across his nerves. Half-remembered snatches of memory are all wrapped in the gauzy shroud of sleep so their details can only be glimpsed through fogged glass. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and tries to push sensations aside - tries to focus.

_What the hell happened last night?_

His mind keeps returning to waking from sleep, whole body electric with Sherlock's demanding and desirous touch, those elegant and masterful fingers, stroking his already throbbing cock through his pants... That exquisite naked body squirming beneath the palms of his hands. 

John's cock gives an enthusiastic pulse and he turns a stern glare on the erection, pressing painfully against the flies of his jeans. Not for the first time in his life as a sexually mature male, he feels a bit of a love/hate relationship for the thing that brings him so much pleasure and yet gets him into more trouble than any single part of anatomy has the right to.

_‘I thought we had a deal, you cheeky bastard,’_ he thinks at his aching cock. _‘Sherlock was off limits.”_

 _ **Was.**_  
_Was off limits…. But now?_

John is no savage, but you don’t dangle steak before a starving dog and you don’t go crawling into a man’s bed stark naked and ready to have a go. You don’t go offering your previously untouchable body up to hungry hands. Not when you are Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes and that bed, and those hands, belong to John Watson. 

It's not that he doesn't have restraint. He has loads of restraint that is tested daily in living with Sherlock. That he has managed not to kill the man several times over, shows superhuman restraint. That he has managed not to snog the man senseless, has also been a matter of military-grade self-discipline. That these two powerful urges chase each other around on an endless loop, like a dog chasing its own tail, means it’s rare that John does not throw himself into bed with the full body exhaustion of a soldier engaged in relentless battle all day. 

Such has been his existence since meeting Sherlock Holmes who, with one piercing glance, tumbled John headlong into a constant war within his own inconsiderate body. 

The man has been tortuous temptation incarnate.

Having Sherlock like _that_ has always been impossible.

John may not have Sherlock’s superhuman intelligence, but he has always been quick to learn and not repeat mistakes. He had long ago concluded that his interest was unwelcome. After a miserably failed attempt at subtly flirting during their first dinner, John restrained his feelings and squashed all signs of interest. After all, Sherlock consistently expresses nothing but disdain for sex and romance generally and a complete lack of interest in John _specifically._ There was an ever increasing mound of evidence that attempting to pursue something with Sherlock would be an unmitigated disaster. 

John respected that. He did. He threw himself at women with a near pathetic amount of vigor. He feverently hoped he would be satiated with each new romance or sexual escapade. He told himself that what he felt for Sherlock was merely infatuation; the allure of something new and decidedly dangerous. 

_It would pass._  
_It **had to.**_

Yet, no matter how much John tried to rationalize that persistent hunger out of existence, the feelings had only intensified with every mind-blowing deduction, every adrenaline-fueled chase across rooftops and every quiet, scotch-tinted evening sitting by the fire exchanging stories and witty banter with the marvel of a man. That fierce desire for _more_ flared to life each time Sherlock stood too close, stared too intensely, touched just a little too frequently and let his fingers or eyes linger just a little too long. 

No one had been more surprised and humbled than John at the depth of that instant, unspoken trust that formed between he and Sherlock. Furthermore, John was aware that he was Sherlock’s _exception._

A breathtaking genius that found the entire world below his standards, Sherlock made every effort to appear purposely abrasive, closed off, and oblivious as he demolished anyone foolish enough to attempt to draw close to him. Yet he invited John into his home, his life and his work. Sherlock revealed his softer, human side to John alone; letting him close and lowering his guard. They had such a lovely, easy companionship and they worked so seamlessly together and there was a twisted appeal in being the only exception for that beautiful, enigmatic genius. John could not stomach doing anything to jeopardize the rare gift of Sherlock's friendship.

Admittedly, John had gone to bed last night trying desperately _not to_ think about lips on a long neck, hands cupping firm flesh hidden beneath perfectly tailored trousers and how little pressure a finger would have to exert on one of those buttons straining across an exquisitely muscled chest before said button surrenders its efforts at restraint. But John was managing. He _was._ With the stoic determination of a soldier marching into battle, John had faced and managed his attraction in the same way one must do with any addiction; one day - one moment - at a time. 

Bloody well deserving of a gold star or a sobriety chip or something for how well he was doing quelling any suggestion of wanting more. He was doing a spectacular job of it…. Right up to the moment he _wasn't._ Right until the moment he was fucking Sherlock into the mattress. 

After months stretched thin in a valiant effort to think strictly appropriate thoughts about his friend and flatmate, last night he had apparently snapped. He'd taken what he wanted with a dark, lustful, reckless, abandon that is startling to recall. He’d lost control.

_How the hell did **that** happen? _

John cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at the bed, as if it might offer up the answer he feels hovering just outside his mind’s perception. He runs back through what occurred moments earlier. 

A warm shiver curls up his spine at the memory of that predatory look on Sherlock’s face as he prowled towards him. It was wild fury and smoldering frustration... But, for a fraction of a second, there was a flicker of _something_ else in those steel blue eyes. The mask had seemed to slip and beneath it was that... _vulnerability_... A raw woundedness, fragility and uncertainty. 

_Sherlock's scared._

John takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair as things at last begin to slide into place.

From (far too much) personal experience, John knows that if Sherlock gets scared, instead of dealing with it in any rational, straightforward manner, there is likely to be an epic row and John may well end up drugged, locked in a cage and scared witless.

John has always been willing to forgive Sherlock this tendency to react absurdly immature and petulant in the face of emotions because it is the nature of the beast. Some animals run away when they feel threatened and some turn and fight. Sherlock, when insecure in his footing, runs at situations with a full-on, animalistic threat display meant to scare off or at least distract anyone that might glimpse his weaknesses. It is Sherlock’s way of protecting himself and staying in control of situations where he might otherwise feel powerless and inadequate. 

Sherlock has never coped well with vulnerability. Being exposed makes unpredictably irratic. It seems to spark in Sherlock fear, that is a recipe for an explosion of catastrophic proportions. 

And if Sherlock is, as John suspects, actually all sharp thorns and irritating burrs to hide an achingly sweet innocence and vulnerability, well that is hardly a weakness John plans to betray.

John blinks, exhaling a little “Oh!” as it suddenly makes perfect sense. _There it is._ All other possibilities eliminated, only the truth remains. 

_**Sherlock wants to be intimate and doesn't know what the hell he is doing. He's scared and vulnerable, and that makes him angry.**_

He grins for a moment at the revelation, unable to contain the rush of affection for the brilliant but surprisingly idiotic genius. Euphoria swells in his chest and rushes in a warm wave out to the tips of fingers and toes. He exhales for what feels like the first time in months. As the wave passes and his mind clears and sharpens, he pulls his shoulders back a notch. 

It's on him, then. He has to take command. The universe has finally done him a good turn and he doesn't plan to waste it. He must focus.

John’s movements are quick and efficient. His mind is on the incursion ahead. He moves around his bed, straightening it to military, inspection-worthy crispness. The familiarity of this tedious task is almost meditative. It allows his mind to slip into that remote serenity that his time in the army mastered within him; the ability to grow sharper and more focused as bullets whizz by his head and the ground explodes beneath his feet. 

He switches off the overhead light and turns on the dim lamp on his bedside table. He moves to the window and draws the thinner, inner curtains. Diffused light from the street lamps spills through and lends a soft and soothing glow to the room. He opens his bedside drawer and arranges the supplies with the precision of a surgical tray. He leaves it just slightly ajar. 

He strips off his jeans, tosses them on the pile with his jumper and shirt and goes to his sock drawer to get a spare bottle of lube. It is a twist of fate that, as a byproduct of needing to frequently take his covert desire for Sherlock (quite literally) in hand, he is now armed with an abundance of supplies. John holds the tube in his hand, considering it a moment, then nods decisively. He must choose his battles in order to win the war. Though he would prefer to take this slow, savor it, building towards the intimate act of intercourse after the prerequisite romance, it is absurd to expect Sherlock to play by ordinary rules of engagement. 

Fortunately, John has learned some subversive tactics of his own fighting insurgents in the deserts of Afghanistan. Sherlock has set his demands and made his strategic objective quite clear. John’s own objective is simple but immensely more difficult to achieve. 

He intends to _keep Sherlock_ and ensure that this is _just the beginning._

John moves to the opposite side of his bed and tucks the bottle under the mattress so that supplies will be within easy reach from either side. 

That is where he is when Sherlock enters the room like an explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my brilliant beta, SherlocksSister.  
> As always, I get great encouragement from Kudos, comments and your thoughts. You can find me on Tumblr too as Breath4Soul.


	6. The Battle

John's bedroom door flies back on the hinge and slams against the wall with the loud crack of a gunshot. A picture jumps off the wall and crashes to the floor. Glass skitters across the wooden boards behind the desk. 

Sherlock ignores it. 

The whole sodding world is collateral damage.

He is fury and need; raging body and ruined brain. A fiery freight train, out of control and barreling into the station. Wreaking its final destructive carnage on those it used to bare as burden. 

_This ends here._

Three strides bring him into the room. His eyes find John and he draws up short. 

In the space of several thundering heartbeats two revelations burst across Sherlock’s brain as explosions of light, colour and earth-shaking sound.

_**1.** John is furious._

It is shimmering off of John in waves like heat over the dessert. As he slowly rises from where he is bowed over on the opposite side of the bed, his eyes are lapiz stone; cold and hard, narrowed and evaluating everything carefully. Most telling, John’s shoulders have snapped into sharp, military lines, pulled back so his chest is thrust out, eyes assessing cautiously with an air of preparedness about him. 

Soft, cuddly, jumper-clad John is bad enough, but this is _Captain John._ His self-control is agonizing. It's delicious. It's cruel and beautiful and Sherlock wants to break it more than breathing. It is driving him round the twist - winding up his already jumbled insides like an over-coiled spring. 

_Immensely unfair._

_**2.** John is (nearly) naked._

The combination of these two observations lands like a bottle rocket exploding in Sherlock's head; blinding and deafening and not at all pretty. 

Sherlock is frozen; everything swimming around him as his mind blazes with fiery pinwheels at the unexpected sight of John in nothing but dark blue, tight-fitted, cotton boxers. Soft, golden light flows across the planes of John's chest and strong thighs. Shadows curl around the cuts of his muscles and pool in the dip of his collar bone and navel. Sherlock wants to dive in and lick the darkness out with his tongue. He wants to pin this fine specimen of man to the wall, like an insect to a board, and study him in detail. His eyes trace John’s form, thirstily drinking in the wealth of new information, drawn to the one thing now hidden from his sight. 

The light throws the ridge of John’s erection into sharp relief against the valley of his pelvis. The thin fabric of his pants is a feeble shield that could easily be defeated. 

Sherlock's fingers twitch at the hem of his own blue robe. Even the silk feels like too much against the painfully needy flesh below; too soft, cool, and not the right texture. The memory of thick, callused fingers tracing the lines of his body replays across his flesh. Everything is throbbing. He shudders. The beginning of something much more humiliating, like a whimper, is working its way up his chest to his tightly sealed lips. He sways on the spot, crushing his eyes closed in an effort to recalculate; take in this new information and recalibrate. Instantly he sinks into his Mind Palace. 

 

> “Well, what’s the plan?” Mind Palace John quirks a half smile as his form shimmers and settles into something more solid. He is standing beside his bed in his perfect navy blue boxers, his arms folded over his chest and an eyebrow cocked expectantly. “I know you’ve a plan.”
> 
> “I’ll figure it out.” Sherlock narrows his gaze and lets his eyes snap over John, assessing him for weaknesses as he attempts to calculate a sequence of moves that will most likely result in John submitting to his demands and quenching his unbearable need. “I always do.” 
> 
> “Mmmm... _noooo._ ” John drags out the word and cocks his head to the side in that soft but chiding way that makes Sherlock feel weak and sick at the same time, like that first plunge on a rollercoaster. 
> 
> His facade of confidence is meaningless here. _This John_ knows all his secrets - his insecurities and mistakes. He knows how many times it has been a matter of luck or John’s unexpected intervention, rather than any genius on Sherlock’s part, that saved the day. 
> 
> “Not always.” John smiles knowingly and Sherlock hates him a little for it… wants to throw him against the wall and shove his tong- _No._ peni- _**NO**_! fist! 
> 
> Sherlock flinches at his own idiotic thoughts, fury surging to the surface. 
> 
> _Definitely_ fists. 
> 
> Sherlock scowls, stepping forward and pointing an accusing finger at the form of John. “It is _your_ fault. Human beings typically have a predictable pattern of behaviour. Statistically speaking, given the frequency of your vehement rejections of the idea of being precieved as in intimate relations with me, there should be no cause to consider any other scenario than you putting up some form of resistance to shedding your clothing. That variable _should have_ been a certainty.” 
> 
> John's hum rattles on Sherlock's nerves. “And you call _me_ the idiot?” He has that annoyingly audacious smile curling his lips and sparking in his eyes. “Aren't you the one that said I can be ‘counted on to behave irrationally’?” John's smirk, half humoured playfulness and half challenging smugness, grows.
> 
> “This is hardly helpful, John,” Sherlock grits out.
> 
> “Right.” John’s smile drops away, he adjusts his stance and moves into a military parade rest, with his hands clasped behind his back and his chin lifted. “What is it then? Tell me the plan.” 
> 
> “Give me a minute,” Sherlock snaps irritably. He knows that outside, in the real world, the seconds are ticking by and soon his pause will be long enough that _even John_ won’t be able to miss that it is more than a slow blink. 
> 
> “You haven't a plan?” John's face crumples in frustrated exasperation. “This is important, Sherlock.” He throws up his hands then sighs, his shoulders sagging in disappointment. He looks over at the bed and gestures towards it. 
> 
> “You really don’t know what you are doing here, do you?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t win the game if you don’t bother to understand the rules, Sherlock.” 
> 
> Sherlock grimaces, hearing the echo of those words from when John originally spoke them; when they’d tried (and failed spectacularly) at playing Cluedo.
> 
> “Rules are for idiots that lack the dynamic thinking capabilities to see any possibilities beyond those lain out for them in excruciatingly dull detail,” Sherlock reiterates his response from then. He really shouldn’t get sucked into replaying this old argument now, but John _had_ started it, hadn’t he?
> 
> “Yeah, you’re just saying that because you know you can't win.” John’s hands are on his hips now and he is looking off to the side, a surefire sign he is getting furious. “How about your learn the rules _before_ you decide to disregard them.”
> 
> “That would be a colossal waste of time and valuable brain space. Besides, I had observed enough to infer that the game, as designed, amounted to random guessing and then having others prove you wrong. It is as if Anderson took his imbecilic efforts to discern crime scenes and forced it upon the unsuspecting populace in the guise of being a crime solving game. My way was much more interesting.”
> 
> “You’re missing the whole point.” John steps forward, his voice is tight with frustration as he glares at Sherlock. “You can’t just do whatever the hell you want and change the rules when it suits you. It’s a matter of cooperation. I’m playing too.” His lips are a hard, straight line and his eyes are narrow and burning. Sherlock watches him with interest, aware of the things John’s anger is doing to his body; pulse elevated, breathing quickened, that warm, fluttery feeling in his chest. 
> 
> Sherlock doesn't understand why he is so angered but it feels like an old festering wound he can't quite put his finger on. He looks down and sees the little revolver and Colonel Mustard game pieces in his own hand.
> 
> “No. I refuse to-”
> 
> “For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, give them back or I swear to God it's going to be real easy to solve the murder because it’s going to be Dr. Watson in the sitting room of 221B with his bear hands.” John’s fists are clenched at his sides. He looks less _'Dr. Watson’_ and more _'Captain Watson’_ at the moment but Sherlock doesn't say this. He knows what is coming next. 
> 
> When they'd played Cluedo, John had followed those words by lunging at him and wrestling with him to try to get the game pieces back. The whole thing had ended with most the pieces in the fireplace and the game board pinned to the wall with a knife, but Sherlock had been treated to John's hands and body scrambling over him. 
> 
> He had tingeled for _hours_ over that contact.
> 
> “Oh,” Sherlock breathes as the thought bursts through the darkness like the sun through gray clouds. “Yes, John. That is exactly what this situation requires.” Sherlock excitedly stretches his fingers out in the air as if the swirling idea is a whisp he can tangle round them and weave the stands of thought into a net to snare John.
> 
> “Sorry, what?” John’s anger falls away into confusion, his brow furrowing. He adjusts his stance. “I’m sorry but weren’t we about to have a row?”
> 
> “Precisely, John. _Anger._ ” Sherlock steps closer, looking down into John's eyes and speaking rapidly. “Anger is a form of passion and a close cousin to the pure chemical and biological catalysts that drive sex. Logically, you only had sex with me the previous night because, under the influence of sleep, your conscious brain was forced to take a back seat to your more primal desires. You are a highly sexual being who would likely have had intercourse with _anybody_ once your conscious was out of the way. Therefore, I need only provoke a rash, physical, reaction (beyond logic and reason) to loosen your tight reign of control. 
> 
> “Anger?” John smirks looking up at Sherlock with that exquisite sparkling in his eyes of awe and the thrill of a perfectly reasoned solution. Sherlock drinks it in. It is one of his favourite expressions in all the world.
> 
> Sherlock nods, stepping even closer. He can feel the heat radiating off of John, as it did last night. He watches John slowly rock forward in that unconscious way he often does, like a magnet on the edge of a strong field unable to resist being drawn in. It is one of those idiosyncrasies of John's behaviour that makes it easy for Sherlock to imagine more. 
> 
> “You are more willing to be in close physical contact with me when you are angry. Therefore, I just need you so furious that you're in a state of impassioned madness; a temporary insanity.”
> 
> “Of course,” John confirms with a tight nod, as he pulls his shoulders back and snaps his heels together into the stance of a soldier called to attention. “Into battle, then.”
> 
>  

Sherlock opens his eyes and straightens his spine. He hardens his expression with a mask of cold determination as he takes a step towards the bed.

“So?” John’s face is irritatingly neutral. He casts his hands a little distance from his sides, fingers spread in a questioning gesture; quietly demanding an explanation for their current predicament. 

“Yes,” Sherlock retorts cooly, the dismissive tone intended to heat John’s temper. John often expresses irritation when Sherlock refuses to explain and instead insists everything is so obvious that John should easily follow along. 

John merely lets out a slow breath, shifting his weight almost imperceptibly. His jaw adjusts before his lips settle into a thin line with that slight curl at the corners that is always dangerous. It never fails to curl Sherlock's toes and flip his stomach with John's obvious restraint over an exquisite storm brewing inside him. If Sherlock plays all his cards right, he might just unleash it. A thrill of possibility shoots down his spine and crackles on his nerves. 

“Not a dream, then?” John’s tone is even. His head is tilted slightly to the side. He is focused and unwavering, with a stillness to him that means he is prepared for anything. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock snarls. 

“Right,” John gives a tight nod and his lips purse on more words he refuses to speak. He looks at the bed, clearly considering what occurred there the previous evening. His only movement is the slight brush of his thumb rhythmically stroking against the side of his thigh just below the hem of his pant leg. 

“Shall I pinch you to confirm your brilliant assessment?” It is meant to be insulting and threatening but it comes out mortifyingly petulant, like a taunting child. Sherlock lets out a harsh breath and flexes his hands at his sides. He wants his hands on John's flesh again, to know every part of him, devour him completely. He will rip apart worlds with his bare hands to make this happen. 

John lifts his gaze to Sherlock’s neck and then drags it back to his eyes. His blunt tongue does a sweep of his lips and he clears his throat, lifting one eyebrow.

It may not be a challenge but Sherlock eagerly takes it as such. He is a great cat closing in on prey as he springs up, strides over the bed and, in an instant, plants himself in front of John. He moves in close and looms over the shorter man with every bit of menace he can muster; narrowing his eyes into slits, body taut as a strung bow - meeting fire with fire.

John squares his shoulders to Sherlock, unfazed. He is looking up from under his brow, eyes hard and attentive as they watch Sherlock. For all intents and purposes he looks like a soldier waiting for the right moment to strike.

“Or perhaps I will _bite_ you.” Sherlock consciously drops his voice lower, adding some silk to it, oozing his best seductive charm. Lesser efforts at charm have seen both men and women swoon for Sherlock… but those had, of course, been _lesser beings_ than John Watson. 

In his fantasies, Sherlock had initially toyed with the idea of turning his skill in flirting, honed for use on the occasional case, on John and seducing him. He'd always discarded this scenario since, even in his own fantasies, he could never overcome his awareness that John has no desire for men. However, the evidence that John Watson is not _entirely_ unobtainable is now written all over Sherlock's body. He drops his voice lower and opens up his body language, making it more fluid and sensual.

“John.” His tone says nothing so much as you will be mine and don't be foolish enough to resist. His eyes are fixed on John’s throat and his mouth is watering with the renewed desire to taste that bit of flesh that his cheek was pressed to the night before; the muscle where the curve of John's neck meets his shoulder. He needs to caress it with his tongue, worry it beneath his teeth and discover the way John’s skin gives way, the taste of him, the noise John makes. So many things yet unrevealed, unexplored, uncatalogued. 

“Right,” John meets Sherlock’s heated stare with his own. He has tilted slightly to the side to look up at the taller man. Rueful amusement creases the outer corners of his eyes but the rest is hard with quiet determination. “So, about last night…” 

Sherlock blinks, startled by John's rebuffing.He is certain he was being obvious in indicating that his mouth needs to be on John right- _the-fuck-_ now. But John is just brushing it aside; willfully ignoring Sherlock's desire.

>   
>  “That. Was. Ridiculous.” Mind Palace John's voice is bubbling with laughter.  
> 

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps to both of them. 

John purses his lips and clenches his jaw. He's, of course, accustomed to Sherlock's biting pronouncements telling everyone to ‘shut up’ when their idiotic babble is inconsequential. However, he obviously isn't going to back down this time. He gives a tight shake of his head back and forth and his voice lowers the strain behind the calm is obvious to Sherlock in how slow and carefully he is speaking.

“I don't know a thing about what's going on here, Sherlock; where this is coming from, what this is about, where this is going-”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock sweeps his concerns away with a wave of his hand, like pesky mosquitoes. He keeps his stare cold and barbed; fiercely demanding. “Me. Sex. Approximately one meter to your left. That's enough to be going on about, don't you think?” 

“No. Sorry. It's really _not._ ” John’s voice is firm, low and dangerous in how tightly controlled it is. His lips have pressed into a smile that isn't a smile. If anything it is a _‘you don't understand who you're fucking with’_ grimace that says things are about to get ugly. “Who do you think I am, Sherlock?” 

There is such a ferocity to that question that Sherlock knows it's weighted with nuances he can't (doesn't want to) understand. He slides on his most bewitching smile.

“John _'Three Continents’_ Watson.” His voice is rich and silky as he glides towards John. “A sexual connoisseur, if your former army mates can be believed.” 

John moves back proportional to Sherlock's own advancement, keeping a careful distance between them. His demeanor is tense but controlled, like a primed weapon. It manages to make his retreat look like it is for Sherlock's protection rather than an attempt to evade what has become a slow chase around the bed.

“A man that has had intimate relations monthly since our association, often unsatisfactory, with a variety of mediocre partners...” 

_All female, Sherlock is certain, but he doesn't mention that._

Sherlock let's a little grin curl his lips at John's corresponding retreat when he advances another step. It's much easier to feel like a predator when John is acting like prey.

“Sherlock.” The tone is cautioning; a _'bit not good'_ it says. John's jaw has tensed and his breathing is more forceful and deliberately drawn. Sherlock feels the tension building between them like the low hum of static between high power electrical wires. 

“A man who would prefer intercourse more frequently than that, if his daily masturbation habits are any indication.” Another step and John moves backwards in unison. It's like a dance. Sherlock loves dancing. However this is more like a Matador and a bull than some romantic samba. 

“A man that, by his pupil dilation, elevated pulse and conspicuous erection, is currently aroused-”

“Listen, Sherlock-”

“No, John,” Sherlock growls, temper flaring over John's lack of cooperation. “I will _not_ listen to your idiotic babble. This hardly requires some long, tedious discussion.” Sherlock’s voice is dripping with scorn and disdain as he steadily steps towards John. His eyes flick over him, sizing him up. It is always a war of attrition with the ex-soldier; wearing him down to the point he resigns in mental exhaustion. Sherlock may not have patience but he has stamina. 

“This does not require brain work, John, which is perfect since that is hardly your most formidable attribute.”

“Right. Ta for that,” John lifts his chin with lips slightly pursed but it is obvious the insult has glanced off of him, failing to penetrate his armour developed from years worth of verbal beratings he took in the army. "We need to talk about this-” 

“Doubtful,” Sherlock stalks forward. “I have already thought of everything you could possibly say-” 

“Apparently not-” 

“Don't be ridiculous. It is merely transport-” 

“It’s really _not,_ Sherlock-”

“Honestly, John, are you going to give me some tripe about your body being _sacred_ when you have ‘got a leg over’ with any willing woman within greater London?” 

“Oi.” John's voice is calm but full of warning. “Enough. This isn't like _that_.” His expression is neutral and his spectacularly blue eyes are as sharp and quietly calculating as a wolf. He isn't reacting. Not the way Sherlock wants him to, anyhow. He is horribly restrained; so unbearably careful and considerate. It is driving Sherlock crazy. Nothing Sherlock says seems to penetrate his calm determination. He's so close that Sherlock can almost feel the heat of him but he won't allow Sherlock any closer. 

“Because I'm a _man?_ Don't be dull, John. I don’t have the time nor the patience for your imbecilic, guilt-ridden, sexual identity crisis. Obviously, it was _all fine_ last night.” 

“I wasn't even _fully conscious,_ ” John lifts his hands, palms out. His voice is tinged with exasperation. “Sherlock. If we could just-”

“No.” Sherlock’s stops, shoves his hands into his hair and grips it tightly, wanting to rip it out by the handful. It stings more than a little to hear John say that he wasn't fully aware of what he was doing last night. Sherlock had known that, of course. Had, in fact, been counting on it when he'd devised his strategy. However, knowing it in theory is one thing. Hearing John actually say the words aloud, on the other hand, makes him want to scream. 

He doesn’t scream, but just barely. Hunched over, hands in hair and face twisted, the sound that escapes through his gritted teeth is a strangled, drawn out, animalistic growl. 

“Sherlock.” John's voice is too soft - sounds too much like pity. Sherlock thinks, not for the first time, that it is a travesty of evolution that humans aren't able to spit venom or shoot sharp quills in defense like other creatures. What atriciously feeble, insufficient, unimaginative vessels homosapiens have. He glares up with all the fire he can muster to incinerate John set within his eyes. 

“This wasn’t even a problem until _you_ came along.” Sherlock hisses, relinquishing his hair to jab a finger towards John and begin his pursuit again, pushing John back. “It stands to reason it is your responsibility to recertify this wretched situation. It is, after all, _your fault_.”

 _“My_ fault?” John’s eyes go almost comically wide and he pulls back, looking genuinely shocked at this. 

That has done it. His calm exterior has slipped, the temper beneath is peeking through. 

“Of course it is your fault, John.” Sherlock quips as he eagerly presses into the first crack in John's unified front of control. “You instigated this and then failed to remedy it -” 

John’s face transforms from calm and clear to dark and menacing as quickly as a summer storm rolling in. His chest puffs up and his eyes flash. 

“ _Whaaattt?”_ The word is a sharp puff of air, almost like a dare for such absurdity to be repeated. 

“This is clearly a mess of your making.” Sherlock is growing more confident now, dark delight coiling through his insides as he watches John's control crumble.

“Unbelievable! Just… Un-fuckin-be-lievable!” John shakes his head, his face twisting in angry indignation. “You’re _actually_ going to try to pin this all on me. How do you even-” 

“It’s obvious where the primary culpability lies…”

“Oi. Wait one fuckin’ moment.” There is a different type of warning laced through John’s tone now. It raises the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck. 

“You grabbed me and you put your hands on my body- ”

“You make it sound like I forced myself on you-” 

“I was merely in proximity-”

“In _my_ bedroom. _My_ bed, Sherlock.” John’s voice is fluctuating wildly between a menacing growl and a roaring shout. “You climbed into _my bed_!” He is turning a bit red now. The perfect shade of cerise crawling up his chest and neck to flare on his cheeks and make his eyes shift to a lovely shade of sapphire blue.

“I was simply observing. You quite forcefully dragged me across that bed with clear intent - seeking relief from an obvious state of arousal-”

“Bloody right I was aroused - Your hands were on my cock… _My._ COCK. Sherlock!” John fixes Sherlock in a spine-tinglingly vicious glare. So exquisitely intense. 

“You were obviously in a state of impassioned desire,” Sherlock ups the tempo of his words and pushes forward, driving John back with the grace and precision of a fencing swordsman, “As evidenced in your adamant invocation of my name and pleading for fulfillment of your primal need.-”

“...Stark naked! You were fucking prepared. Prepared _for fucking!_ ” The tendons and veins in his neck are showing in high relief as he bellows at the ceiling. Sherlock grows louder but keeps his tone even.

“This is a classic case of projection of guilt.” To provoke John he adds a dash of disgust to his imperious tone and emphasises each word like the sharp pop of gunfire or the hard, fast beat of an ominous crechendo . “Rejecting the truth of your impulses and the consequences of your actions by denying their existence in yourself while falsely attributing them to another as a means of avoiding accountability for your obvious shortcomings-” 

“Ha!” John actually barks a laugh but it is the most unamused and completely galled sound Sherlock has ever heard. “Do you honestly even listen to yourself?” John leans forward, shaking is head, his mouth open in livid disbelief. 

Sherlock halts, taken aback, eyes snapping over John. To be honest, he hadn’t been listening to himself, hadn't been thinking, he’d just been feeding off of John’s anger and spilling out venom. 

“You won’t even listen to a goddamn word I’m saying throwing this - this bloody _tantrum_ because you’re too damn bullheaded to discuss-” 

“THERE IS _NOTHING_ TO DISCUSS!” Sherlock is the one shouting now and the words rip through him bodily with such force he is hunched forward with his fists clenched in front of himself, trembling with the venomence of his fury. 

Silence. 

John tips his chin just slightly to the side and it says everything while he is saying nothing at all. He is wearing that hard, thin smile that is not a smile at all. Sherlock has just proven his point for him with that dramatic (over)reaction. 

Time for a different tactic. Sherlock had really hoped to avoid playing this card.

Sherlock readjusts his stance and draws himself up, assuming an air of confident authority. He keeps his voice calm, low and void of all emotion; carefully modulated to that precise and commanding tone that always pulls John up short. 

“This is how this is going to go...” Sherlock takes another step forward, forcing John back. “You are going to use the lubricant you've undoubtedly secreted in your bedside drawer.”

A step forward.  
John steps back. 

“Slick up your generously proportioned cock...” Sherlock clips the k sharply as he steps forward. John tries to step back but he has run out of room for his retreat and his whole body stiffens as his calves hit the bed. His eyes drop to Sherlock's mouth and it sets off a flutter in Sherlock's insides; petrol thrown on the fire and he is burning from the inside out. 

“Bend me over this bed,” He moves another step closer, his voice dropping lower; sharp and unyielding. 

“And for the love of Queen and Country, finish what you started, Captain Watson.” 

It is a crude, heavy-handed manipulation to blatantly evoke John's military background like that, but Sherlock is beyond the point of finesse. He knows that, as a soldier, John is always moved to serve the greater good and therefore responds reflexively to any order given with enough urgent insistence; no matter how distasteful or unpleasant he finds it. 

If John can’t enjoy the act, he can at least see that it is _for the greater good_ to restore Sherlock to functionality. Sherlock solves crimes and saves all of England on occasion; restoring his faculties is practically an act of heroism. And surely Sherlock can arrange a metal or knighthood or having John declared a national treasure or _something_ , if he will only cooperate.

John obviously doesn't see it that way. He isn't moving. His brow has lowered and an odd expression has darkened his face. Sherlock hasn't seen this look before. It irks him that he is unable to discern the layers of meaning. He frowns and glances around, trying to understand what he's missed. His eyes fall on the lamp on the bedside table right behind John. 

_Darkness._  
_John needs darkness._  
_In darkness John can pretend that Sherlock is someone else._

Sherlock reaches past John for the lamp but is halted by John’s hand landing firmly on the center of his chest. 

First contact. 

Like John's touch last night, this seems different than the ways in which John has touched him in the past as flatmate and occasional doctor. Sherlock has no idea how it can feel so drastically different. There is nothing visually to distinguish it from all their companionable touches but it is charged with a certain intimacy and intent that makes everything in Sherlock go still and quiet, waiting. For a long moment, Sherlock can only stare at John's hand and let the heat bleed through the thin silk covering his chest. 

He thinks he can feel it starting to curl around his heart. 

The fantasy from the night before of John looking down on him so knowingly as his hand settled over Sherlock’s heart bubbles up from his memory. Sherlock swallows hard and musters every bit of his courage to drag his stare from that hand on his chest to John’s eyes. There is spike of relief followed by a small sting of disappointment to find John's expression is not affectionate and knowing but rather steely and unreadable. John’s jaw is set and his eyes are sharp as they study Sherlock’s face in return.

“So that's it?” 

“That's _what?”_

“Just going to march in here demanding I- I fuck _you_?” 

The bright fission of arousal bubbling under Sherlock’s skin sours with John's emphasis of the word _you_ and the tightening of John's eyes and dip of his chin that suggests that the idea of doing _that_ to Sherlock, _of all people,_ makes it that much more absurd. As if Sherlock can't even warrant the same treatment as one of John’s one-night stands. 

“Problem?” Sherlock rocks forward on the balls of his feet, pressing into the hand on his chest. 

“Really?” John's voice is incredulous. He looks down for a slow breath before fixing Sherlock in a cutting glare.

“ _This._ ” The warmth and pressure of John’s hand is gone as he gestures sharply between their chests. “What we’ve done…” He gestures towards the bed. “You can't really expect you can simply-” His hand drops and it clenches into a fist, his words grind to a halt as if he's shut off a valve. His eyes narrow in that way Sherlock knows means that John thinks the rest is plainly understood. 

When Sherlock just glares back at him, giving no quarter, John nods and his tongue sweeps his lips. He searches Sherlock's face then lifts his chin and his eyes darken as his face hardens back into tenacious resolve. 

It is the expression John wears when an idiotic criminal is about to make the foolish choice to try to run or fight, requiring the highly-competent and dangerous ex-soldier to reveal the truth of himself hidden beneath the ordinary facade. 

They both know that the tension between them has reached a breaking point. 

“You’ve planned this.” John states. “You manipulated this whole thing-”

Sherlock very nearly flinches. He did _not_ plan this. Not _any_ of it; not wanting John, not ending up in his bed, not having sex with him, and certainly not enjoying it - craving it. But here they are and Sherlock will be damned if he backs down now. He glares down his nose at John in defiance.

“There is no denying or refuting or escaping this, John.” Sherlock presses forward until John is teetering, muscles straining to keep him from toppling backwards onto the bed. 

“Any forensic pathologist with half a brain can see the evidence of how fully you participated and thoroughly enjoyed last night by the bruises you left-” 

“Sherlock.” It is an inhaled breath; a gasp like a blow has landed to John's chest, and it pulls all the air out of the room. A pained expression washes away John's sternness. His eyes flick down to Sherlock's neck then up to meet his stare and, even though his pupils are dilated, consuming the dark blue of his iris, his expression has softened. 

“It's not supposed to be that way-”

Pity is one thing Sherlock cannot tolerate. His last bit of restraint cracks. Cold rage violently collides with blazing need as his emotions coalesce into a sharply focused, dark and desirous force of nature. He topples headlong into it.

“Fuck you, John.” Sherlock surges forward and it all happens rather fast. He thrusts his palm over John's groin. His fingers curl over that stiff length and, for a fraction of a second, it is glorious. Then John lets out a forceful breath through his nose. The ex-soldier moves swiftly and precisely. A firm grasp and an expert twist. In a blink, Sherlock is bent over the bed. His cheek is pressing down into John's crisply folded cotton sheet. John stands behind him, expertly twisting his arm up his back. 

For a moment they both still; adjusting to the abrupt shift in positions and power. Sherlock comes back to himself, realizing, with a flood of exhilaration and relief, that he is precisely where he wants to be and so close to everything he desires. His free hand scrambles along the smooth, taut sheet for a grip to push back into John.

“No!” John barks with a stern tone that freezes Sherlock. He can hear John's harsh breath panting above him. He can feel the steel of anger in him. “I’m not doing this Sherlock.”

“John, don't be obtuse-”Sherlock snarls into the sheet, supremely frustrated that John is _still_ arguing. He tries to press backwards, but John's grasp is unyielding. 

“No. I really don't believe _I'm_ the one being obtuse here, Sherlock… You know what I think?” 

“Always.” It is a blatant lie. Sherlock sometimes knows what John will do but rarely knows what the man thinks. 

“I think you’re bluffing.” 

Sherlock scoffs. John would dare to doubt his resolve? That is a terrible error in judgement. “Then, John,” He tips sideways enough to be able to slip a foot into optimal position as he glares over his shoulder at John. “You’re less intelligent than I gave you credit for.” 

Sherlock hooks his leg around John’s ankle, sweeps his feet out from under him, and yanks hard on his own wrist when John moves to catch himself on the bed. John slips, losing his balance and releasing Sherlock. Sherlock turns and attacks and then they are wrestling, scrambling across the bed; limbs flying and tangling. They pant and grunt, and John curses, as they scrabble along the mattress, trying to get the upper hand. 

John is strong, combat trained and fiercely determined but Sherlock is limber, clever and experienced in street fighting. 

Sherlock is also _desperate._

One should never underestimate a desperate man. 

Their bodies sliding and pressing against each other in heated battle is only making Sherlock more maddened with need. He is unable to form a strategy while faced with the barrage of input from John’s nearly naked body tumbling over him, wrapping around him, moving against him. 

It's an overwhelming flood of pleasurable sensations; the give of meat and unyielding strength of bone, the smoothness of skin and coarseness of hair, the strength of muscles as they ripple and flex, the warmth of hands pushing and pulling and grabbing at Sherlock; fearless, determined and clearly skilled.

It really can’t be called fighting. Rather than doing any harm (as both men are more than capable of) it is little more than a beastly, savage (if somewhat childish) scramble aimed at restraining and forcing the other into submission. 

“Sherlock you bloody berk, this isn’t how it works,” John growls, twisting and squirming as they tangle around each other like some complex puzzle. “Just stop-” The muscles of John's arms and torso flex and Sherlock's mouth is watering with a need to taste. He is trying hard to maintain his efforts but he can smell John's skin; overtones of aftershave, deodorant and shampoo doing little to disguise that fiercer and elemental aroma of adrenaline and arousal. A chemical cocktail that stirs primal things from their dark hiding places inside Sherlock. 

Sherlock wants more.  
Needs more.  
Has to wrap himself in John and be completely engulfed. 

It is maddening that he can't focus and he is rougher than needed with John; his nails digging into the flesh of his back and the meat of an arm out of frustration.

“Don't be absurd, John,” Sherlock pants, voice breathless but still replete with irritation. He is on top of John in what amounts to a rather fierce and somewhat askew embrace, limbs encircling him completely like an insatiable parasite. He lifts up just enough to bore a stare down into John’s eyes. “One time, John. It needn't mean anything at all.” 

“That's what I'm afraid of,” John retorts, glaring up at him. His sigh is more than a little exasperated. “Sherlock, I don't want-”

Desperate to shut John up, Sherlock crashes his lips into John’s. It is nothing like a kiss and everything like their battle so far, messy and a bit violent, with both of them clashing as they work at cross-purposes. 

Sherlock is trying to further provoke John in order to drive him away from any logical arguments against his primitive need to stick his prick in a warm body. And John... well, Sherlock can’t quite figure out what purpose John is working at. He seems to want to gentle the kiss but Sherlock keeps defeating his efforts, even going so far as to bite John's lip just to infuriate him. 

“Son-of-a-bitch, can’t even kiss you proper,” John curses, turning his head away. Sherlock pants into his shoulder, entire body aflame from that wild, not-quite kiss. 

“John-” Sherlock husks, trying to think of something to say when his body is deafening in its scream for _MORE, MORE, MORE!_

“You have no idea what the hell you’re doing, Sherlock.” John is starting to push against Sherlock, pry him off, and Sherlock can't allow it. He has no retort for John so he crushes his lips into John’s again to try to squash his objections. Though, admittedly, he is already missing the heat and slick pressure of John’s lips tangling with his own.

After a frustrated grunt of protest, John seems to make up his mind to give as good as he gets and the soldier re-emerges. John fights back; carnal and demanding, his tongue, lips, and teeth quarrel with Sherlock’s with a deep and skillfully avaricious kiss. He sucks on Sherlock’s bottom lip, then nips and plunges his tongue in, forcing Sherlock’s questing tongue back into his own mouth. A hand twines itself into Sherlock’s curls at the back of his skull and tilts Sherlock’s head just right so John’s attack is even more devastating, invading Sherlock’s entire mouth with a fierce fervor. It steals Sherlock's breath and after only a moment of this brutal, skilled snogging, Sherlock is breaking away to gasp into John's shoulder again, feeling dizzy and drugged.

“Yes, _that,_ John.”

Heartened that John is now primed to see this this through, Sherlock gets to his knees and clamours over John to reach for the bedside drawer he is certain is full of John's sex supplies. 

“Oh, no you don't,” John grabs at him to slow his progress. He takes a knee to the chin for his efforts, but manages to secure a hold on one of Sherlock’s legs. He flips over and drags Sherlock back down to the bottom of the bed by that leg as he gets to his own knees. It would be impressive if it wasn't so frustrating.

“John!” Sherlock tries to kick loose and continue clawing his way up the bed. John is not having it.

“Listen you pompous prick-” John lunges forward, knocking the breath out of Sherlock with his solid weight. Sherlock is captured in a chokehold from behind, his whole body wrapped with a fiercely determined ex-soldier, weighing him down to the mattress. Sherlock continues writhing, thrashing and pulling at the bed to try to haul himself up. 

“I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock, but you know I can.”

“Do it,” Sherlock growls realizing he would prefer it, really. It is not as if John is likely to be amenable to relations ever again, so Sherlock fully intends this to be the last time his transport’s baser needs drive him to John's bed. He must be sated with whatever he can get now and if the experience has enough unpleasantness and pain, it can only help ensure his body does not crave this again.

Sherlock throws an elbow that makes contact with John’s bad shoulder. He didn't really mean to do that but he'd be a fool not to take advantage. He twists free and flips over only to find his mouth millimeters from John's bare ribs as the soldier reels in pain. He wants to lick and taste but John is already recovering; curling in, calf wrapping around Sherlock's waist to reform a hold on him, so he bites instead. John yelps and his whole body jerks, nearly catapulting Sherlock off the bed with his strong legs. 

“Fuck!” 

Sherlock lands near the head of the bed and a stray limb hits the lamp and tips it from the bedside table to dangle from its cord, casting wild shadows on the ceiling. After a few seconds of recovery, Sherlock flips around and scrambles for the drawer again.

Before he can get a hand inside, John launches himself across the bed, catching him around the waist and bearing him down to the mattress. A brief struggle ends with Sherlock face down on the bed and John sitting astride his waist, holding both Sherlock’s wrists in a vice-like grip at the small of his back. 

“For Christ's sake, Sherlock-”

“Just do it, John.” 

“No, I'm not going to. Not like _this-_ ” 

Sherlock thrashes, but John has him in an impressively secure hold now. His full weight is on Sherlock’s waist and his grip is tight on Sherlock’s wrists, pushed far up his back, nearly to the dip between his shoulder blades. He will most definitely cause himself injury if he makes John push it any further. 

Eventually Sherlock stops moving and pants into the mattress.

“John,” he whines, feeling angry in defeat. He lifts his head and slams it against the mattress a few times in frustrated protest. He crushes his eyes closed.

>   
>  “You forget, I was a soldier, Sherlock. I killed men.” Sherlock's image of John is standing beside the bed, dressed in fatigues, arms folded behind his back. He is not really looking at Sherlock but past him; strong and proud.
> 
> “I didn't forget,” Sherlock grumbles.
> 
> “What makes you think you can make me do anything I don't want to do?”
> 
> “I do it all the time.” 
> 
> John looks at him pointedly, the faintest knowing smile on his lips. “Only because I let you.”
> 
> “No… that - that doesn't even make sense.” Sherlock frowns at the form of John, looking him over for some clue why he'd say such a thing and why he is wearing that infuriating expression. “Why would you let me?”
> 
> John lifts his eyebrows. “Why, indeed.” The voice doesn't sound like John’s at all. Disturbingly, it appears as though Mycroft’s voice has come out of John's lips. 
> 
> Sherlock reflexively recoils, opening his eyes.  
> 

“Stay still and just listen to me for once in your bloody life,” John's voice comes from above. His callused fingers are gripping Sherlock's hands tightly and the inside of his thighs are gripping Sherlock's hips. 

Sherlock starts to object but sucks that air right back in with a sharp gasp when John leans over, his voice dark, thick and warm like syrupy pouring into Sherlock's ear. 

“Do you really know what you are asking for, Sherlock?” The tone is so low and heated that it almost seems like a threat. 

“What do you really want, Sherlock?” John's body presses into Sherlock, moulding around him. It is warmth and pressure and Sherlock's every nerve is a live sparkler of fizzing, crackling heat suffusing his insides. Sherlock's entire body is alight and he aware of every sensation, every brush of flesh or fabric like all his skin is suddenly an erogenous zone. It makes a humiliating sound, like a choked whimper, slip out of Sherlock. John definitely has his full attention now.

 _You._  
He won't say it. _Can't._

“Sex.” It isn't a lie, not _completely._

“Is that all, Sherlock?” 

John's thumbs are making small circles against the thin skin on the inside of Sherlock's wrists that are pinned between them, reminding Sherlock how much John is in control of this moment.

“I think this is more than that.” 

Sherlock wants to protest, backtrack, cover all those gaping holes in his facade, but his brain falters and skips offline when John lowers his pelvis the last little bit and he feels the length of John slot in between his cheeks through the thin cotton and silk. He can't quite stay quiet. Each exhale has a little, pained, barely there note.

“You’re all bluster and bravado trying to bullshit your way through this - bully your way into my bed.” John's tone has shifted to something sterner, the edge of frustration and reprimand slipping in. “But you can't. Not this time. Not with _me._ Not for _this,_ Sherlock.” 

Sherlock holds his breath, doesn’t move, doesn’t speak or make a sound. He tries to focus - tries to understand what John is saying. 

Is this cruel punishment?  
A taunt?  
Some kind of negotiation?

“Tell me what do you want, Sherlock.” John, the beautiful despicable man, tips his pelvis up to drag the length of his clothed cock slowly, subtly along Sherlock's crease. A strangled noise escapes up Sherlock's throat and his insides ache and clench around the emptiness of where John belongs. Sherlock has run out of words, out of tactics and out of resistance. 

“John,” he breathes into the mattress. It is the most truthful answer he has given yet, but John takes it as reproach.

“Just tell me the truth, Sherlock.” He sounds angry again... or, perhaps, desperate. Sherlock can't tell… and he can't fathom anything John would be desperate for that he could ever give.

“What do you want from me?” 

John’s hips cease their maddening little circles and he leans down until his lips are breathing warmth into the cup of Sherlock's ear.

“Let me show you, Sherlock.” There is a smile in his voice and Sherlock sucks in a breath, feeling strangely stricken by the undercurrent of warmth, desire and protectiveness he thinks he hears in those simple words. He bites his lip until it hurts, fearful this whole thing is his imagination. When he lets his breath out, it trembles and his whole body goes limp in surrender. 

John makes a sound in the back of his throat and it seems like acknowledgement of Sherlock’s shift in demeanor. 

“Stay,” John says firmly in a low murmur. He lifts up and one hand briefly presses on the back of Sherlock’s neck, holding him firmly to the mattress, before it begins an agonizingly slow path down his spine. Even after the heat and pressure of John's body draped over him leaves, Sherlock doesn't dare move. He stays still, hands clasped behind his back, eyes crushed closed, panting into the mattress. 

“Good boy,” John’s voice says and Sherlock is not sure if it is from the real John or the John in his mind. Sherlock shudders, a rush of gratification liquefying his insides at the praise anyways.

John’s palms trace down Sherlock's spine as he slides down Sherlock's body. It is like nothing Sherlock has felt before. Not just a touch but a promise instilled with everything they are and everything they could become. 

It takes all Sherlock’s dwindling restraint not to say something to break the tension or to try to unravel the mystery of John’s intentions. He wants to know what John is thinking, what he is planning, if this is some sort of tease or the beginning of his request being fulfilled. He can’t predict John and every nerve is buzzing with anxious anticipation. It is nearly unbearable but John had ( _maybe_ ) said he is good… … and Sherlock finds, quite distressingly, that he wants more than anything to believe that John believes he is good.

John lifts up off Sherlock and then warm palms are grasping Sherlock's bare thighs where the robe has bunched up to expose the back of his legs. John’s hold is firm and confident as he pushes Sherlock's legs apart and settles on the bed between Sherlock’s thighs.

There is only breathing in the quiet room as John’s hands move up to rest just under the hem of Sherlock's housecoat at the juncture of the top of Sherlock’s leg and buttox. They caress the sensitive flesh along that seam and Sherlock is acutely aware that no other human being has touched him _there._ It sends bubbles of heat rising and popping through his insides.

 _Oh God. Oh god. Oh god._  
_What is he doing?_

“John?” It doesn’t sound like Sherlock’s voice at all, strangled in raw desire and fear as it is.

“Sherlock.” John’s right hand pushes firmly down at the base of Sherlock’s spine as both a clear directive, reasserting that Sherlock should stay still, and a reassurance that John knows what he is doing. John's left thumb is stroking back and forth along the inner seam of his leg and arse and Sherlock can feel everything inside winding tighter at that gentle caress. Sherlock loses the ability to breathe.

“Let me?” It isn't quite a question, more like a demand. Still, John waits for his agreement. 

Sherlock knows that the answer should come easily. Obviously John has permission to touch every part of him - he needn't ask. But the fact that John _wants to,_ that he is touching Sherlock's body so deliberately, in a way that is not at all chaste and while fully conscious of his actions, is beyond belief. Sherlock blinks into the mattress for a full minute before he at last manages to shake his head up and down rapidly. Then he crushes his eyes closed, breathes deeply and tries to stay removed from what is happening, like a scientific observer cataloging the exact sensations in detail. 

John pushes Sherlock's gown up slowly, like a man savoring opening a precious gift. The ripple of cool silk is followed by warm, familiarly calloused palms as both John's hands move up over the cheeks of Sherlock's arse, pushing the fabric to the center of Sherlock’s back to fold over his hands still clasped there. 

John’s hands knead Sherlock's flesh gently before grasping and pulling the globes apart and suddenly Sherlock is very aware that his most intimate parts are exposed to John's studious gaze. It is thrilling and terrifying all at once and it takes everything in him not to squirm. He has never been one to be self-conscious about his body but, then again, he has never really cared this much about his transport being an acceptable offering. 

_An offering._  
That thought catches in his head.

He has never offered himself to anyone. It is somewhat startling to realize that that is what he is doing now. Surrendering. Giving his body over to John. He'd been able to make himself believe it was the other way round when they were battling; that he was taking something of John rather than giving all of himself. Now, with the barrier of anger gone and John's gentle and decisive touches exploring his body, there is no way to ignore the intimacy and vulnerability of this moment.

“John?” It is choked and has a slight wobble in the middle that cannot be helped since the whole universe is wobbling on its axis. 

“I could have hurt you, Sherlock... Last night... It’s a miracle I didn’t.” John’s voice is somber and intense. Sherlock knows that tone. It’s the tone John uses when he has run off into danger and nearly gotten himself killed. It is full of that confusing protectiveness that Sherlock tries hard to resist the urge to believe is anything more than a soldier’s commitment to his comrade. Now it has an extra note of desolation because John was the one who nearly hurt Sherlock. Sherlock hates that. He swallows, stiffen his spine and tries to affect haughtiness when he is face down on the mattress with John holding him open and gazing at his most intimate parts. 

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock asserts. “Do you honestly think I would let you do anything to me I didn’t want you to? I am hardly- _ah_ ” Sherlock practically chokes on his own breath, words dying in a strangled cry as John slowly swipes a thumb over the sensitive nerves surrounding his entrance.

“You aren’t particularly good at self-preservation and self-care,” John states matter-of-factly as Sherlock pants into the mattress. He tries to pull his scattered brain back together as John’s hands continue to knead soothingly. 

“Why? Why did you want me to do this?” John's hands move back up and skirt softly over Sherlock's hips, lightly tracing the bruises his fingers made there the previous night. 

For a moment the sounds from last night drown out all Sherlock's thoughts, the grunts and sighs of pleasure that Sherlock's body had drawn from John. He can almost feel John's skin, fevered and sticky with sweat, pressed against his back. His muscles flexing and the entire earth shaking with each thrust.

When his mind comes back to the present, John is still caressing the marks he made on Sherlock’s flesh and Sherlock can tell by the touch and the harsher nasal tones of John's breathing that the sight of these injuries disturbs him That twists something awful in Sherlock's stomach. He quickly discovered the first day he met John that he has an uncomfortable aversion to disappointing him… as well as an addiction to drawing words of awe and praise from the otherwise reserved soldier. 

“It's not supposed to be that way, Sherlock… Not- Not like that. Not the _first time._ ” 

The first time?  
_Oh._ John _knows._

Sherlock's cheeks are on fire, but the humiliation flooding through him feels like liquid nitrogen in this veins, so cold he suddenly feels frail - breakable. The cold blood beneath his hot skin reignites the violent storm of anger and frustration. 

“Spare me your righteousness. Virginity is an outdated social construct that enforces medieval gender politics and places arbitrary rules on a person's sexuality and sexual experience.” There is more bitterness and contempt in Sherlock’s tone than strictly necessary. “It is absurd archaic nonsense that is of no relevance.” 

John has gone very still. He doesn't even seem to be breathing. Sherlock wishes he could see him and yet is equally grateful he cannot be seen. 

“I was - that was your first time having sex?” John's voice sounds odd; strained but also thin and hollow. What is that tone? Remorse? Regret? Shame? Disappointment? Anger? Disgust? For Christ’s sake, why must John be so complicated in all the ways Sherlock is least skilled in? 

And why is he asking -  
Oh… _oh,_ he _hadn’t_ really known.  
And now Sherlock has confessed. 

Sherlock’s humiliation deepens and so does his outward rage. 

“I am certainly not ignorant to the mechanics of such an act. It is simple phys-”

“Sherlock.” John's voice is every bit an army commander about to hand down some discipline to a lowly recruit giving lip. Sherlock focuses on this, the effortless authority and notes of expectation for compliance in John’s voice. Oddly enough, it steadies him. The whole situation feels out of control and he feels out of his depth, but John _is not._ John is steady and quietly competent, gentle but fierce when necessary.

“Stop bullshitting and tell me the truth. Have you been physically intimate with another human before last night? Am I your first? ”

Sherlock searches his mind for something to say. He can't tell John that he has never really wanted another. That the thought of most people repulses him and his personality takes care of the rest.

“John,” his tone is careful, “It is my understanding that most men find it a badge of honour to take someone's virginity.” 

Sherlock clamps his jaw shut, distinctly aware he has somehow made it even worse by suggesting this. John’s body has stiffened. Sherlock can almost hear the wheels in John's brain turning; the heaviness of his thoughts slows his breathing. That anxiety in Sherlock’s stomach twists tighter. John's weight shifts a little and Sherlock instinctively closes his legs around John to try to prevent his retreat.

“Don't,” he insists sharply, pressing his thighs into the meat of John's hips and locking his ankles behind John’s back to keep him in place. He just needs John to stay put until he can think of something to fix this.

“Alright,” John concedes softly and his voice has genuine fondness to it. His hands lower to Sherlock's thighs and stroke down the back of his legs soothingly. A shiver, that John most certainly feels, twitches through his muscles without his permission.

It is quiet for a few moments. John’s hands haven’t left Sherlock's body, but surely they are about to. So Sherlock tries desperately to trace the path of John’s thoughts and understand what may put this fiasco back on track. 

“Why now? Why me?” John's voice is low and even breaking the heavy silence.

Sherlock bites his lip. There isn’t a good way to answer that directly without giving everything away, so he side-steps it. 

“Who else would it be, John?”

“Convenience, then?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock shifts his hands a bit, still clasped in the center of his back, and deadpans, “Does this appear very convenient?”

“No, I suppose not,” John chuckles. He is quiet a moment, fingers pushing circles in the flesh of Sherlock’s thighs. “You trust me.” It’s not a question. Sherlock answers it anyways.

“Implicitly.”

“Tell me what you want, Sherlock,” John insists. It is breathy and there are nuances of emotion in his tone that Sherlock can't parse. John wants the truth but he can't possibly comprehend how destructive that truth would be.

He can taste John on his lips, feel the inside of his thighs pressing into John. His hands are gentle and warm and he is so very afraid to hope - afraid his imagination is misinterpreting the information, skewing it to reflect his own desires. Sherlock shakes his head back and forth, gritting his teeth to keep in the words pressing against the back of them from escaping.

_I want you._  
You to make love to me John.  
I want you to love me. 

“Say it,” John's voice is darkening. Hid hands are gripping Sherlock's cheeks again. He dips his thumb down into Sherlock's crease and circles, slowly, methodically unraveling Sherlock's brain

Sherlock searches his mind, desperate to say the right thing without risking everything. 

“Please.” 

John lets out a slow breath, a familiar sound of resignation and defeat. Sherlock can picture his face, drawn tight and dark with disappointment and frustration. 

“I won’t do it Sherlock. I won’t fuck you.” John’s voice is so quiet but firm and absolute. Sherlock could just cry. 

“John, I-” There's nothing to say, really. Words have failed him, which is horrifying since words have been his sword and shield for his entire adult life.

He can feel the tears pricking the back of his eyeballs, blurring and stinging. He closes his eyes but John is not there either. Of course he can’t hold onto the fantasy of John when he knows for certain that it is never a possibility. He is not a fool. 

He should really get up and leave before he further humiliates himself but he finds he's lost the will to exist past this moment. Suddenly, that memory of John on top of him in the coffin feels very apt; almost poetic. He can almost feel the Earth pulling him _down, down, down_ into its bosom and the dirt covering him. He knows the precise amount of time it will take the insects to turn him to dust. 

Sherlock is so lost to his dark thoughts that it takes several moments to realize John is speaking, his lips close to Sherlock’s ear. His hot breath sends involuntary shivers through Sherlock. 

“- what you do to me? I think it could be so much more. We could be.”

Sherlock sniffs in a sharp breath through his nose and tries to turn his head to look at John and discern what he's saying. John sits up a little to allow him. He can just barely manage to see a bit of John's face. He is smiling warmly. 

“John?’

“If we do this, Sherlock, we do it my way. We take it slow. We enjoy it. We do it right.”

“What?”

‘I won't fuck you, Sherlock, but I will make love to you.” Sherlock’s whole body shivers, John's words creeping up his spine and spreading through him like firecrackers exploding within water, stunning him with the force of impact.

“You know the difference?” John shifts back further to sit between Sherlock's thighs and his hands are touching everywhere, slowly, purposefully as if staking claim on territory that he fully intends to explore later. 

Sherlock struggles to find an answer that will not betray his jumble of conflicting emotions about the prospect of John making love to him.

“Sentiment?”

“Sentiment,” John confirms and the long strokes from Sherlock's waist down to his thighs now have a reverence and tenderness that was previously restrained. Sherlock finds himself relaxing into in spite of his own efforts at restraint, soaking up the warmth and care he'd never admit to craving. 

“Let me?”

Sherlock nods again, eyes practically rolling back in his head as John's hands take the path back up his thighs, arse and lower back pushing firmly into the muscle as if revelling in the strength and give. This is dangerous... So much more so than last night… but he can't think, can't move, can't hardly breathe. He'd agreed to anything if John keeps touching him.

“You're not prepared.” 

Sherlock’s brain is so scattered, torn between sensations, it takes a full minute to realize the meaning of John's words. 

His first thought is that John is suggesting he is not prepared _for John_ \- this side of John - the John who can take him apart with strong, competent, tender hands. 

On that matter, he’d be foolish to disagree. 

Then he remembers that he'd been wound so tight in anticipation of confronting John that he'd failed to achieve enough focus to physically prepare himself for intercourse.

“I can-” Sherlock breaks a hand away from the position John has kept him in to reach towards the drawer again. 

“No,” John says stilling Sherlock with a firm grasp on his thighs. His weight shifts then a tube of lubricant is being pressed into Sherlock's hand. John briefly leans over him, body pressing him down into the mattress as he whispers in his ear. “I want to watch. Show me how you prepared yourself, Sherlock.”

John retreats and Sherlock lies there for a moment clutching the bottle and blinking rapidly, trying to process what just happened. Is this real? A bottle of lube magically appearing when desired then John saying the perfect words… it seems like the work of his imagination.

He rolls over onto his back and looks down at John kneeling at the end of his bed. His hands are resting on the top of his thighs and the bulge in his dark blue boxers is still straining against the fabric, practically screaming for Sherlock to touch it, engulf it.

“Go on, then. Show me what you like.”

Sherlock blinks up at him, wide-eyed with shock. John nods and then his eyes move down Sherlock's body as he wets his lips. That look in his eyes is even more devastating than Sherlock ever imagined; determined and hungry with just a hint of something sultry and mischievous. 

In this moment, Sherlock knows he is so fucked. There is no possible way he is going to survive this. This is an invasion and Captain John Watson takes no prisoners.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a smutty one-shot that the reader comments keeps driving forward.   
> I can’t be blamed really.   
> It just sort of… _happened…_  
>  And keeps happening as long as they keep prompting.  
> I can't resist a good idea/challenge.


End file.
